


1825 Days Around the Sun

by QueenBagelcat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Gen, No Slash, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 19:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBagelcat/pseuds/QueenBagelcat
Summary: Dean's life changed forever just before he was five. These chapters explore his birthday every five years from 5 years old to 35. Rated for swearing in later chapters.  Previously posted on Fanfiction.net.  Complete.





	1. 5 O'clock Shadow

January 24, 1984 

The whiskey bottle felt hard and round in his limp fingers. John had been drinking pretty steady since after dinner and he knew he was drunk. And now according to the glowing alarm clock on the night table at his hip, it was somewhere around 2:00 am. He knew he needed to sleep because his boys would need him to function when they woke up, but he remained motionless staring at his children curled up together in the crib in front of him. John pulled the bottle to his lips and drained the last of it, then set it down heavily beside the clock. There wasn't much room in the small bedroom of this tiny apartment. The room only held a single bed, and the crib. The small night table was crowded with the clock and the lamp that cast a dim orange glow in the room. Gripping the edge of the crib for balance, John peered down at his sleeping boys. As he had taken to doing, Dean had crawled in with his brother, curling protectively around baby Sammy. Moisture began pooling in his bleary eyes at the sight. Carefully reaching down he ran a shaky hand over Dean's back and marveled as Sammy's little puffs of breath made some of his brother's blonde hair flutter. The whiskey had warmed John, quieting his memories and thoughts, pushing everything down under a nice, soft, blurry blanket. Maybe he could finally sleep. Toeing off his shoes, John laid down on the bed fully dressed and turning, he watched his children through the bars of the crib as they slept.

John drifted and sleep pulled him down in a floating nothingness for a long time. He felt good, warm and comfortable. Slowly he realized that there was something in front of him. He didn't want to climb out of the comfortable oblivion, but a dream started to form, demanding at least a little of his attention. John realized that he was looking into the soft green of trees in the distance. The trees became more distinct the longer he looked at them, still peaceful and lush. After a while, he realized he was leaning back on something. Beneath him he felt something hard and with some thought, identified it as the windshield of the Impala. Gently the soft sound of the Eagles drifted his way, presumably from the radio of the car beneath him. The sun had warmed the black metal of the car and the heat was soaking into the back of his legs through his jeans. Now aware of his body, he focused on trying to place his surroundings. The car was parked in a familiar little clearing where he and Mary used to go for picnics. Mary loved the old fashioned experience of eating outdoors on a blanket. At the thought of his wife, the colors got brighter and the edges of his awareness sharpened. John knew this day, remembered it and wanted to push it away, knowing the pain he had tried to drink away was about to manifest. But his sleeping brain had other ideas, forcing him deeper into this dream memory. In a mishmash of competing emotions, John both eagerly and reluctantly turned his head. His Mary was sitting on a blanket a few feet away in the shade of an oak tree. Dressed in a flowing blouse and skirt, she looked like an angel. My god she was beautiful - he had forgotten how the sunshine made her blond hair glow. It reminded him of a halo on a painting of the Madonna he once saw. He watched greedily as she continued the mundane task of unpacking some sandwiches and cookies for their lunch. Yes, we had gone for a picnic that day.

Then a shadow crept across his mind, something about Mary that he should know, but his dreaming brain couldn't place. He remembered the feelings of that day and that he had been starting to get a little worried about her. He'd forgotten that for the few weeks prior to this day she had been moody and out of sorts. A couple of weeks ago she almost bit his head off because he forgot to put his dirty socks in the hamper. And just last weekend she had burst into tears when a button fell off her favorite shirt. Mary wasn't easily rattled so it was worrying to see her so off her game. John slid from the car and went to his wife, awed still by her beauty and grace. She patted the blanket beside her where she had propped herself against their new green Coleman cooler. As they unwrapped their sandwiches he could tell Mary had something on her mind that she had mulled over. Mary thought about things for a long time, but she always shared them with him. And John could be patient for the woman he loved.

Mary peered up at him through her long lashes. “John, I…well, um, I’m pregnant,” she stuttered. He stopped chewing and choked down his bite. A thousand things had rushed through his head - disbelief, excitement, fear and joy - his heart was pounding as he looked into her eyes.

His wife ducked her head. “I should be due in January, I know I should have told you sooner, and it’s really too soon to get excited, but…are we OK with this?” Mary’s breathless fretting tugged on his heart strings. 

"Mary, honey, I'm totally OK with this. I'm happy, ecstatic!" He gripped her forearms across the blanket of sandwiches and snacks, unable to pull her into his arms or kiss her without upsetting the precarious lunch. In his dream state he remembered being so excited, but he'd also felt the stirring of worry and fear crowd his happiness. At the time his biggest concern was that he knew nothing about being a dad. After all, his own father had gone out one evening when he was a little boy and never come back. What if he screwed up this kid? He felt the edges of this dream memory darken like a cloud passing over the sun. Mary's beautiful blue-grey eyes peered into his, looking for reassurance. Screw the sandwiches - he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. After a moment he leaned back to look into her face - Mary's amazing, trusting face. "We are going to have a baby! You are going to be an amazing Mom sweetheart."

Mary leaned back and stared deeply into his eyes. As if she could read his doubts and worries, she reached up to put her hand on his cheek and pat it gently. "Don't worry John, you're going to make a great Dad."

o-o-o-o-o

"Dad… Dad….Daddy?" The sound of Mary's voice slipped away, drowned out by the pounding in his head. Groggily shaking his way out of the dream and the comfort of sleep, John felt a small hand patting his face. He opened his eyes a crack, wincing as the light of the table lamp stabbed them. Dean was standing in his pajamas by the edge of the mattress. When he saw John begin to awaken, his son took a step back and gave a significant glance towards the crib. Sammy was crying and it was obviously distressing Dean. John shook his head trying to clear the fog that too little sleep and too much whiskey had caused. The loss of Mary hit him again like a punch in the stomach. The grief and anger that he had been trying to drink away for the last few months settled back over his shoulders like his worn leather leather jacket. Dean gave his sleeve an urgent tug.

"Yes Dean, I can hear him," John grumbled. The piercing wail of his youngest son got louder, like a nail gun to his brain. John pushed himself unsteadily to his feet almost bumping into the crib and reached down to scoop up Sammy. Patting the baby on his back, John shuffled into the hall keeping his balance against the peeling wallpaper in the hallway. After leaving Mike and Kate's house just before Christmas, John had rented this furnished apartment in a crappy building on the wrong side of Topeka. There was a shabby living room, with a small kitchen at one end, a tight bathroom that smelled faintly like paint and mildew, and another small bedroom. The other bedroom was supposed to be Dean's, but the child never seemed to want to let him or his baby brother out of his sight. After a few days of putting Dean to bed only to find him in his brother's crib the first time he checked on them, John had relented and stopped trying to keep Dean in his own room.

Dean trailed after him as he made his way to the main room. "Shhhhhh, shhhhhh, Sammy." John pulled the baby closer and and jiggled him up and down. Sam was red faced with tears streaking down his chubby little cheeks. He was still crying, but Sammy snuggled his silky soft head into John's neck, getting the collar of his t-shirt all damp, while John rubbed his back. The battered dresser that held the old TV did double duty as a change table. John changed Sam's diaper and wrestled the still crying baby into a new onesie. "Dean, get out from under my feet!" barked John as his eldest tried to help and see what he was doing at the same time.

Now that Sam was dry and somewhat cleaner, John moved the baby to his hip and carried him over to the other side of the room that served as kitchen, dining room and living space for the three Winchesters. “Let’s see what we got for breakfast buddy.” John put Sam in his high chair. Compared to the apartment, this chair was a thing of beauty that had been donated to the family by a neighbour shortly after the fire. “How about some applesauce?” 

Dean tugged his arm. His little boy's intense green eyes were wide with asking. Opening a mini jar from the counter and taking a spoon from the tray John handed it to Dean who had scampered up onto a chair near his brother. As Dean attempted to get some of the sauce into his brother, John began making coffee. Now that the boys were settled for a minute the pounding in his head had returned. Scattering a few Cheerios onto the high chair tray for Sam, he poured Dean and himself each a bowl of cereal and sat down.

Dean was happily holding the spoon to Sammy's mouth. Sam was trying to help with the spoon and stuff cereal bits into his mouth at the same time. Well at least some of the food was going in. "That's enough Dean, you're not trying to drown him in applesauce. Come eat." Dean obediently put down the jar and sat to tackle his own breakfast. John put the rest of the sauce away while getting his cup of coffee.

John sighed, and dragged a weary hand down his face. The weight of the empty day stretched before him, already beginning to push against him. What to do? He felt restless and frozen at the same time. There were probably calls he should make and things he sort out, but all he wanted to do was go back to bed and return to his dream of Mary. He head was fuzzy, his mouth felt like sand and his thoughts were buzzing so hard that it seemed impossible to focus on only one. Some of this was from the whiskey and although in his heart he knew that he was spending too much time drinking, it was the only way he could get some sleep that wasn't plagued with fire and screaming. He scrubbed his stubbled chin again and resolved for the hundredth time to ease back on the whiskey.

As he contemplated the day, John had a strong urge to go back to the library to try and find more information about the strange occurrences that had made him a widower. There wasn't really anything at the public library that he thought would provide answers, but he knew that somewhere there was someone or something that could answer the questions burning in his brain night and day. Maybe he should drive back to Lawrence and see Missouri Moseley. He had met the psychic not long before leaving Lawrence. Not only was she the only one who seemed to believe what he saw that night, but being in her calm presence made him feel like maybe there was an answer to all his questions out there somewhere. That maybe he could find the truth and avenge Mary. Plus, the boys liked her. John made a decision. Grabbing a dish towel, John wiped the sauce and drool from Sammy's face. "Go get dressed Dean, we're going out."

o-o-o-o-o

Dean sat quietly watching Sammy put some coloured cups into a stack and take them out again. Sam was drooling all over the carpet here in the kids section of the library, but he seemed OK. Dean had a truck in front of him...but it was just there in case Dad glanced over. Really he didn't feel like playing with toys anymore. He missed Mom so much and it was really hard to feel excited about the things he used to when they lived in the old house. He liked watching Sammy, and making sure that his brother was safe. In fact it made his tummy upset when he was separated from Sammy. Besides, watching Sam was a way to help Daddy, who was so sad all the time. Sometimes Dad hugged him close, and Dean liked it but it was a little scary, especially when Dad was upset and would cry on him. Then sometimes Dad would yell at him for no reason that Dean could figure out. It was confusing. Dean tried so hard to be quiet and helpful and good so that Daddy wouldn't have to worry about him too. And, he didn't want to be a baby, but he was afraid...what if Dad was gone too just like Mommy went away? Dean was doing his best, but he knew he wasn't big enough to take care of Sammy on his own yet.

Sam crawled over to Dean and waved a red block at him. Dean took it from his brother while his eyes crept across the room to the table by the window where Daddy had spread out books and papers and stuff. Dad was starting to gather up his things, so Dean knew that they were going to leave in a minute. He looked at his little brother who was now happily drooling all over a blue block. "Don't worry Sammy, I'll never leave you." Dean whispered.

o-o-o-o-o

John pulled into the quiet street where Missouri lived. Dean was sitting in the back wiping the drool off Sam's face. Absently John wondered if Sam was about to get a tooth, but the majority of his mind was already racing ahead. Missouri had said she had invited someone he should meet and John was trying to figure out what that meant. Dean had already unbuckled his brother, so John swung the baby onto his hip and started for the door. "Come on Dean."

The door swung open “Well John Winchester, let me see that sweet baby of yours.” Sam’s eyes lit up as Missouri scooped him up and tickled him. Sam screamed in laughter as they walked into Missouri’s front room. The room normally served as the waiting room for the psychic’s many clients, but this afternoon it was empty. “We can’t stay too long Missouri...I wanna get the boys home fed and put to bed early.”

"Now you know that once those boys are in bed, all you are gonna do is spend the night pouring over the research you've been doing and pouring whiskey down your throat," She said in a scolding tone. "There's plenty of time for a visit and besides, someone will be along shortly that you need to meet." Turning her attention to Dean, "Child why don't you go see what's in the kitchen?" The adults followed Dean into the other room, a gorgeous pie was sitting on the table next to a couple of brightly wrapped packages. "You didn't think we would forget your birthday, did you boy?," Missouri asked as she handed baby Sammy back to John to help Dean climb up on to a chair. John's heart sank. In his grief and his unrelenting urge to do something about his wife's murder, he had completely forgotten. Was he such a horrible father than he hadn't even remembered his son's 5th birthday?

"Now child I can't make a cake to save my life, but I made you a nice sweet apple pie! Set yourself down so I can cut you a piece...if it's ok with your Daddy?" The smiling woman glanced back at John who nodded. "John why don't you put little Sam on that blanket on the floor and we'll sit and have some pie."

John did as he was told while Missouri cut Dean a slice and poured him a glass of milk. The grieving man's throat was raw with unshed tears and he could feel his face red with his guilt and shame. Wasn't this proof that he was just like his own father, who walked out the door and forgotten all about him? Getting his face under control, he sat at the table and Missouri put a slice of pie and a cup of coffee in front of him. John couldn't meet her eyes. "Thanks Missouri," was all he was able to say, trusting that the kind woman knew he meant it for more than just the pie. Sneaking a glance at Dean who was steadily eating his treat, he couldn't speak and swallowed a swig of coffee with his emotions.

“Now Dean sweetie, this present is from me.” Dean dutifully pushed his plate to one side and carefully unwrapped the gift Missouri handed him. John’s heart gave another lurch as he saw how delighted his son was to be the focus of their attention. Dean’s green eyes hadn’t had this sort of sparkle since before the fire. The present was a small pillow covered in blue and red and green race cars on a light blue background. 

“What do you say Dean?,” prompted John.

“Thank you,” whispered his eldest son. Dean seldom spoke anymore, so when he actually got a response, John knew that his little boy was excited and happy. 

“Inside this pillow I have put a few things that should make sure that you have peaceful dreams Dean.” The psychic gave the boy a warm smile and John a significant look - “No more nightmares child. Now this gift is from your Daddy.” Missouri handed Dean the second package. She gave John another look, one that even he could tell meant that he was to keep his mouth shut about who had really bought the gift.

Dean smiled shyly up at John, “Thank you Daddy.” The soft sentence meant that Dean had said more words today than he had over the last few weeks. John felt moisture building in his eyes, so he said gruffly “Well open it up.”

It turned out that Missouri knew his boy almost better than he did. The present was actually two things; a Batman cape complete with half mask, and a black toy car that John assumed was supposed to be the superhero's car. Dean examined the presents with wide eyes. "Why don't you show your loot to your brother Dean?," John encouraged. The five year old climbed down awkwardly, his gifts in his hands. As he went to join Sammy on the blanket on the floor in the other half of the comfortable kitchen, Dean stopped by his father's chair and put a small hand on John's knee. John tenderly put his hand on his son's head for a moment, then let him go to the baby. Wiping the back of a hand across his eyes, John turned to Missouri. "Thanks," he said his voice rough from suppressed emotion.

“No need to thank me John, I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately. Let’s leave the boys here to play and we’ll chat in the living room. I think the person I was expecting has arrived.” She ushered him into the other room and went to answer the door before the person knocked.

Missouri’s front room was all business, and her kitchen was clean and friendly, but her living room reflected more of the woman herself. There were some tapestries with exotic birds and a beautiful wooden carving of a dancer. The sofa was a deep lavender, the rug an abstract blend of deep greens. The fading sunset cast a golden aura over the room, warming the shadows in the corners and making Missouri herself glow liked polished walnut. John stood by the mantel where he could still see the boys in the kitchen, when his host and a man about 10 years older than him walked into the room.

“John, this is Daniel Elkins and I think he can help you.” Daniel stuck out his hand and John shook it. Then both men sat opposite each other and silently measured the other. Daniel looked a little rough around the edges and seemed uncomfortable on the soft chair he was sitting on. His eyes reminded John of some of the older men he had served with in Vietnam. Elkins had seen things no man should see, and it had made him tougher and harder. John could tell that the older man was doing his own assessment and felt slightly amused and then pleased that the gruff older man seemed to have judged him as adequate. Before the silence between the two men got truly uncomfortable, Missouri spoke up.

“Daniel is a Hunter John, someone who tracks and kills some of the evil things in this world...like the thing that killed your poor Mary. He can tell you more about what goes bump in the night. Why don’t you two talk for a spell and I’ll go check on those boys.” The plump woman rose and moved towards the bright kitchen.

“So you kill monsters?,” John asked tentatively. The older man nodded. "So, you might know what killed my wife?,” John asked eagerly. Most people would perhaps have been puzzled or disbelieving about the hunter part, but John was excited for the first time since that horrible night 12 weeks ago. If it was an actual job to kill evil things then that meant those evil things could be killed. And John was going to find and kill the son of a bitch that murdered Mary, whatever it was - of that he was absolutely certain. If this guy, this hunter, could help him do it...then he was willing to listen and learn.

The older, taciturn man eyed John silently before finally opening his mouth to speak. “Well mostly I hunt vamps and from what Missouri told me you wife’s neck wasn’t ripped out, so it likely wasn’t a fang that killed her. But I do know a bit about a few things, and know some folks who know more than me. It’s a rough life being a Hunter, but if you want to catch that thing that killed your wife, I can probably help point you in the right direction.”

“Great, I’m in. Tell me what you know.”


	2. 10 to one

January 24, 1989

Dean pointed his missile launcher at the drug dealer. He had already killed the two other low-life thugs, sending a carnage of blood and scorched body parts everywhere. Flexing his finger on the trigger, Dean added the third scumbag to the pile of corpses. He scooped up the money and drugs the bad guys had dropped and started moving down the street.

“Dean, we’re ready to go.” His father’s stern voice cut through the bells and bleeps of the arcade. Reluctantly Dean looked away from his video game. Damn...this would probably have been a high score, but Dad had that “don’t make me ask twice” tone to his voice. With a soft sigh, Dean abandoned his game, grabbed his backpack and walked over to where his dad was waiting in the mall. Sammy had been running in circles around Dad with his toy airplane high in his right hand making propellor noises, but when he saw Dean he put the plane behind his back. Sam’s left arm was encased in a dingy cast that the two boys had decorated with markers. Dean looked away from his brother’s arm, the guilt a heavy lump in his chest.

“What’s up Dad?” 

"We're heading to Bobby's," was his terse reply. And with that, Dad turned on his heel and Dean fell in line behind him, a firm hand on Sam's shoulder as the small family made it's way to the parking lot.

They had been in Des Moines for a few weeks as John was helping Caleb take out a vampire nest. Although he wouldn’t tell the boys, he had a very close call and if it wasn’t for his friend and fellow hunter John might not be here today. The bandage on his neck and his pale face were a testament to that. He had screwed up, and as always any failure on his part made him angry. The bad hunt and the constant worry about his boys made him tired and out of sorts. Sam still had the cast on his arm from when he jumped off the shed of the rental last month. John knew it wasn’t entirely fair to blame Dean for that, but damn it, he needed to count on Dean to look after Sam, especially if something happened to him.

"Are we going to stay for a while Dad," his oldest asked. John knew that Dean generally liked the time on the road with his father and brother, but Bobby's place was also extremely interesting. There was the junkyard and the big field behind his house, and sometimes Bobby let the kid work on junk cars. Dean was a natural and as his fine motor skills developed, John was certain he'd make a fine mechanic one day, once they had avenged Mary.

"Maybe for a while, we'll see. Stop pestering me Dean," John snapped. Since his almost-death at the hands of the vampire John had been thinking about things that he wanted to talk over with Bobby. Like if the older hunter would take care of the boys if John was killed. Sometimes he wondered if they wouldn't be better off without him anyway. Maybe he should have found them a nice family, set them up in a real home with a permanent school with friends and hobbies and a white picket life. But someone had to protect them and show them how to protect themselves. Plus he couldn't bear to think about leaving them behind for good. His sons were the last part of Mary, and the best part of himself. He would do everything in his power to keep them safe.

The roads were pretty clear for January, the car was pleasantly warm, the brittle winter sun was shining, and the radio was on - down low so it wouldn't wake Sam and Dean in the back seat. He turned into the side road that led to Singer Salvage Yard. John glanced at his boys curled together in sleep. Dean was getting so tall and looking more like Mary everyday. Sammy seemed like he'd never grow although he was pretty tough for such a little kid. Sammy looked younger than his age, but Dean looked a older than his years and John felt a fleeting clench of regret as he looked at his eldest son. Suddenly a crazy thought crossed John's mind bringing a smile to his lips as he pulled up behind Bobby's house.

Bobby was bent over the engine of an old clunker. From here, John couldn’t tell if he was trying to fix the relic or pull parts off of it. But the bearded man straightened up and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands with as the powerful Impala rumbled to a stop. He lifted a hand in greeting.

"Hey Bobby," John said as he stepped out of the car. Without the soothing sound of the engine, the boys began to stir in the backseat. "Wake up Dean, Sam - we're here." John extended his hand to his friend who greeted him with a gruff "John." But when the boys tumbled out of the car, Bobby broke into a smile.

"Hey Dean, Heya Sam. How you boys doin'?" The grizzled junk man crouched down to greet the boys.

"Hey Uncle Bobby," piped up Sam. "I got two more signatures on my cast!" The little shaggy headed boy brandished his plaster wrapped arm at Bobby.

"Yeah, the maid at the last motel and the cashier at the Gas-n-sip - how exciting," said Dean sarcastically, even as he nudged his brother fondly. Despite his harsh words, Dean gently pulled Sam's coat tighter around his small body and wrapped an arm across the narrow shoulders.

"Boys, why don't you go inside and get out of the cold, if it's alright with Bobby?" John gave his friend a significant look.

"Sure, yeah go ahead boys. I'll be inside in a bit and make some hot chocolate."

The two men stood and watched the boys walk into the house. Once they were safely inside Bobby walked over to the work table and poured them each some coffee out of a large thermos he had there. He pulled a flask from his vest pocket and added a little something to the steaming beverage and then handed one of the dented cups to John. "What's up?"

Rubbing his hand over his face, John looked over the sea of decrepit cars and sighed. "A vamp almost got me the other day." Bobby just looked at him expectantly. They both knew that close calls were just a part of the job. "I intend to find and kill the thing that killed Mary before I go, but a Hunter's life, well it usually ends bloody. Now I figure that when it's my time, then it's my time, and there isn't a lot of point worrying about it. And I don't. But I do worry about those boys." John took a swig of his coffee and then looked Bobby in the eyes. "And if something takes me out, I was hoping that you would be willing to take on Dean and Sam for me."

A myriad of emotions crossed over Bobby's face. Which was unusual because no one had a poker face like the gruff scrapper. John found himself holding his breath. "John….I don't know that I'd make much of a caretaker you know." Bobby's eyes got a faraway look, then hardened. "But if it comes to that, I'll make sure they always got food and a roof and I'll do my best to look after them."

The moment stretched uncomfortably for a second. Then John felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and he reached out to shake the other man's hand. "Thanks Bobby." The emotion making John clear his throat.

"So, you wanna keep emoting, or you wanna go make sure that Sam hasn't broken his other arm yet." John chuckled and started to follow Bobby towards the house, the relief that the uncomfortable conversation was over made him feel oddly giddy. It was Dean's birthday today and John hadn't had the time or energy to get him a gift, but he remembered his crazy thought. "You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna teach Dean how to drive."

"Drive, John! The kid's only 10 years old for Christ's sake," Bobby exclaimed. Still John knew that the hunter's disapproval was nothing compared to the excitement his son would feel. Of course just because he wanted Dean to know how to drive, didn't mean he was gonna let the kid. It was just for emergencies. Still he couldn't wait to see Dean's face, so he lengthened his stride towards the house.


	3. 15 Minutes of Fame

January 24, 1994

Dean and Sam walked out of the wind and cold and into the brightly lit mall. It was a Monday, and he and Sam had gone to school today which sucked. Both boys had stayed up very late last night doing research for the hunt their father was off doing. As always Dean had that tight knot in his stomach when he thought about Dad hunting on his own, and all the things that could go wrong. School was such a joke when he should be out there with his Dad hunting things and saving people, not stuck sitting on his butt in a classroom. Sam however loved school and as usual was nattering on about his classes. Dean had no idea why his brother was like this, but Sammy always perked up when they were able to attend classes regularly. He listened to his kid brother with only half an ear, most of his attention was spent scanning the popular hang out spot for Jennifer Martin and her group of friends.

Jennifer was the head cheerleader at the high school. She was a stunning brunette with long brown hair she kept pulled back from her face with a variety of butterfly clips. Despite the cutesy accessories, she also had a slammin’ rack and a reputation for being wild. She’d been eyeing Dean in class the last few days and had suggested that he join her and her friends at the mall. Dean knew that Dad had ordered Dean to take Sam straight home from school and he felt a bit uneasy about defying that order, but it was his 15th birthday today and the last thing he wanted to do was sit in a cramped motel room, watching The Nanny with Sam. Not that Dean didn’t like spending time with his kid brother, but compared to the possibility of some quality time with a smoking hot girl who was sending all the right signals… Well, Dad would be gone for at least a few more days and there would be lots of time to spend with Sam later. 

Dean spotted the cheerleader and her pack of friends in the food court and stopped just out of view. Scanning the nearby shops he spotted a bookstore and knew that the birthday gods were smiling on him. Sam could easily spend a couple of hours browsing and getting his geek on and Dean would be back for him in 30 minutes, 45 tops. Ushering his brother towards the bookstore, Dean broke into Sam’s unending stream of chatter. “Hey Sam, I wanna go meet some people at the food court around the corner. You’ll be good to hang out here for a while, right?” Dean gently shoved his brother towards the store before the kid even had a chance to answer, eager to get to Jennifer and the promise of her lip glossed pout.

o-o-o-o-o

Sam watched his brother walk away with a sigh. He should have known that Dean had ulterior motives for disobeying Dad's orders and taking him to the mall after school. Sam was a little hurt that his big brother would ditch him but it was Dean's birthday. And if anyone deserved to have some fun it was Dean. Sam sighed again and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He was tired and would much rather be back at the motel, watching TV and hitting the sack early. But, since he was here, he might as well check out the bookstore.

Sam noticed the guy behind the cash was giving him a dirty look, like he suspected Sam was going to steal or break something. The younger Winchester sidled behind a big display of Jurassic Park related items and began to browse. The store was pretty small and he didn't like the cashier's eyes following him around. It made him uncomfortable. So, after checking out the miniscule section of books about science, Sam was bored. He bought a keychain for Dean with a bit of money he'd saved up. His brother was still a year from being legal to drive the Impala, but he knew Dean still carried the spare keys just in case, and had driven their Dad home from a hunt more than once.

Purchase in hand, Sam walked out of the bookstore and looked around. Sam knew that if he showed his face at the food court where Dean was, that his older brother would feel obligated to include him. Dean never made him feel bad about it, but Sam knew that he was one of the reasons why Dean sometimes found it hard to make friends at a new school. So turning, Sam headed deeper into the mall. He could always use this Dean-free time to check out the pet store.

Sam found the pet store and enjoyed an excellent 40 minutes or so playing with and cuddling the litter of golden retriever puppies that were for sale. The store clerk didn't seem to mind the attention Sam gave the small dogs so the youngest Winchester indulged to his heart's content. Sam desperately wanted a dog, but Dad said it was out of the question, so his canine love was limited to the variety of hound dogs that Uncle Bobby had guarding his salvage lot over the years.

After having his face thoroughly licked, Sam picked up his pack and headed back towards the food court. He was starting to get hungry and wanted to see if he could convince Dean to get him one of those giant pretzels. Cautiously scouting the food court, he found Dean. His older brother was sucking face with a skanky looking cheerleader in a dim alcove while a bunch of the popular kids from school lounged at the tables nearby. Dean would be pissed if Sam interrupted him now for anything less than an emergency, and unless a pack of werewolves or a hoard of zombies were attacking - it wouldn't be considered an emergency. Besides, Sam didn't want to go near the group of students, some of which made fun of him or knocked his books out of his hands at school.

With another sigh, Sam resigned himself to waiting until Dean came up for air. He found another alcove, on this side of the food court, one with a planter of fake ficus trees that had a comfortable looking bench. Pulling out his current book, he settled down to wait for Dean. 

o-o-o-o-o

“Hey Jenn,” a voice said from over Dean’s left shoulder. “If you wanna ride home, I’m going now.” Jennifer pulled her lips from his with wet popping noise. Dean groaned a little in disapproval. The cheerleader smiled wickedly and licked her red and swollen lips before putting a hand on his chest and pushing herself off his lap.

“Sorry Dean, I gotta go.” She leaned close and purred in his ear “Happy Birthday,” then grabbed her bag and left with Melissa, the owner of the voice. He was sad to see her go, but more than happy to watch her walk away. Dean sighed in a mix of frustration and contentment. He could still taste the sweet bubblegum of her lip gloss, but she also left him with an uncomfortable need to adjust his jeans.

Giving his body a few minutes to settle down he pulled his beloved leather jacket over his shoulders and looked at his watch. “Holy shit!” All thoughts of Jennifer fled as he realized that he’d left Sam alone for over two hours. Jumping to his feet, Dean hustled around the corner to the bookstore. The guy at the cash shot him a snotty look as he quickly searched the small store. Trying to keep calm when he didn’t find his shaggy headed kid, he approached the register. “Hey, did you happen to see a kid in here? About yay high, brown hair, he had a tan jacket?”

The clerk shrugged, “Lots of kids come in here goofing around and mess up the displays and stuff,” he said with a sneer. 

Stuffing down the urge to punch the jackass in the face, Dean struggled to keep his tone neutral. "Well this kid would have come in around 4:00 and wouldn't have done anything like that."

The clerk sighed and said “There was a kid, but he was only in here for about 10 minutes before he left.”

Dean fled back into the body of the mall, not bothering to thank the asshole. He went back to the food court, but it was now teeming with families trying to eat a fast dinner before shopping. Dean scanned the crowds for a Sam shaped kid, but saw nothing. He turned back, almost jogging down another corridor. Dean considered what stores Sam might have visited as he began to search in earnest. All sorts of terrible things started running through his mind. Dad had reinforced enough times that it wasn't only supernatural stuff that could hurt a sweet kid like Sammy. God, Dad was going to kill him. Although if anything happened to Sam, Dad might not need to. Trying to stay focused on finding his brother, Dean saw the puppies in the window of the pet store. Those adorable dogs were like Sam magnets, so Dean made his way to the older lady staffing the store and asked if she'd seen Sam.

“Sure, cute kid, very polite. He sure loved those puppies, probably stayed here half an hour or so,” the kindly woman said. 

“Do you know where he went from here?,” Dean asked. “He’s my kid brother and I have to find him,” a bit of worry bled into his voice.

“Honey, why don’t you go down to mall security? They can make an announcement or at least have the security guards keep an eye out,” the clerk offered with a soft look in her eyes.

"Thanks," Dean threw the word in her direction but he knew he wouldn't take her advice. The last thing Dad would want is any sort of official notice. If Sam ended up with the security people, then the first thing they would want to do is call a parent. Since they wouldn't be able to reach one, Dean knew the next thing that would happen is a call to Child Protective Services. That could bring a whole lot of official eyes onto the Winchesters and could mean the end of their little family. Dean felt sick. As worried as he was about Sam, he couldn't risk that, at least not until he'd searched everywhere himself. Moving towards one of the illuminated maps of the mall, Dean began forming a search pattern in his head, determined to check every inch of the building if necessary. But, it was a big mall and what if Sammy had left the building, or worse, been taken from it. Sam was smart and strong, but he was still only 11 and pretty small for his age. Panic began to bubble up from his gut.

“Hi Dean.” Distractedly Dean noticed a girl from school standing beside him at the map. He barely glanced at her. “Whatcha looking for?,” asked the blonde girl, whose name Dean was pretty sure was Amanda.

“Nothing, just trying to find my brother,” Dean shot back dismissively. He wasn’t interested in talking, he needed to finalize his plan and find his brother. 

“Is he the little boy with the curly brown hair who’s always reading?,” Amanda asked. Dean turned on her with the speed of a predator. 

“Yes, have you seen him?” Dean demanded, gripping her arms.

A flash of fear crossed Amanda’s face at the intensity of his gaze and the strength of his grip. “Um, I’m pretty sure I saw him at the food court. He was lying on the bench over by those fake trees.”

Dean surged away from the confused girl and practically sprinted back towards the food court. Behind a jumbo sized stroller and a family of 5, Dean spotted the decorative trees that created a screen. Working his way through the tables and the crowd as quickly as he could, he made his way to the little alcove. There was Sam. Despite the noise of the dinner crowd, and the discomfort of the hard bench, he was fast asleep. His feet were tucked up on the seat and Sam's head was resting on his backpack like a pillow. In one hand, a book was loosely held open, and the other hand was curled up under his chin as if it had been propping up his head before Sam fell asleep. Dean paused and tried to get his hammering heart under control. Sam looked so much younger than his age when he was sleeping. Sometimes Dean forgot that Sam was still just a little kid, one who deserved a good night's sleep, a proper bed and far more attention than Dean had given him today. Leaning over his brother he ran his fingers through Sam's shaggy locks before shaking him gently. "Sammy, wake up buddy."

Sam scrunched up his face in that way he had since he was a toddler, before opening his hazel eyes to look at Dean. The kid smacked his lips and pushed himself up, tucking the book into his bag. "Hey Dean," he said sleepily, as if it was perfectly normal to take a nap in a crowded public place. Dean lowered himself to the bench, gratitude and relief making his knees weak.

"Did you have fun with your friends?," Sam asked, unknowingly triggering a new wave of guilt in his big brother. Before Dean could formulate a reply, Sam thrust something into his hands. "I gotcha this. Happy Birthday Dean." Sam watched eagerly as Dean opened his palm. It was just a keychain, nothing fancy, but it was an silver oval with a stylized leaping impala. "See, it's an impala, just like the car," Sam beamed up at him, all dimples.

"Thanks Sammy, it's great," Dean said around a lump in his throat. With more than the gift in mind, Dean put an arm around the thin shoulders beside him and gave Sam a side hug. He pulled his keys out of his jacket pocket and strung them on the new keychain. Here he'd friggin' abandoned the kid for hours and Sam had gotten him a present. Dean had no idea how he had gotten so lucky as to have Sammy as his brother. 

"So, can I get a big pretzel?," Sam flashed the puppy dog eyes at Dean which made the older brother laugh out loud. Sam had no idea just how unnecessary that tactic was. Dean would get Sam whatever he asked for as long as he got to have his little brother here safe and sound beside him.

"Sure Sammy, let's get you a pretzel." Dean tousled his brother's hair, earning him a grumpy look as the two made their way to the pretzel stand.


	4. 20-20 Vision

January 24, 1999

“Now Dean, I want you and Sam to take care of this tonight. That ghost is escalating and it’s only a matter of time before someone gets killed.” Dean listened to his father’s instructions with a barely stifled groan. He had wanted to have a burger with Sammy, then visit the local bar, use his fake ID to it’s fullest extent and maybe get lucky with that hot redheaded waitress he had seen there last week. But, it looked like celebrating his birthday was just going to have to wait. As if he could read his son’s mind, Dean heard his father sigh heavily. “I know it’s your birthday son, but there’s a job to do and I won’t be back for another few days.”

“I understand Dad,” Dean reassured his father. Sure it would have been fun to blow off some steam tonight, but saving people was way more important. “I’ve got this,” Dean confirmed.

“No Dean, both of you - this is a two man job. I don’t want you going alone. Tell Sam he’s to be your backup. The two of can handle this together,” Dad ordered. Now it was Dean’s turn to sigh. He knew Sammy was going to be pissed. He had some sort of big exam tomorrow and the last thing his little brother was gonna want to do was spend the night lurking in a decrepit house hunting a spirit. “Dean, I’m serious. You take Sam with you. I don’t care what book he’s knee deep into, this is more important. Do I make myself clear?” His father’s tone brooked no debate.

“Yes sir.” Dean replied promptly, already mentally working out how best to convince Sam.

“I’m counting on you son,” his father said before ending the call.

Dean hung up the receiver and stood for a few minutes, girding himself for the fight that he could almost smell was coming. Sam was not going to be happy to have his study plans cancelled. With a calming breath, Dean turned to look at his little brother. Only a few months away from 16 and Sam had finally began to grow. The damn kid had shot up like crazy over the last few months and now was only a few inches shorter than Dean himself. Sam was hunched over the little table in the kitchenette of the motel room. His too long hair was obscuring his face, but Dean could tell from the tension in the slim shoulders that Sam had overheard his part of the conversation and had a good inkling about what his father had commanded.

Sliding into the kitchen chair opposite Sam, Dean picked up the warming beer he had been drinking when their father had called. He sat sipping it in silence, watching Sam as the younger Winchester ran his finger down the page of a textbook while scrawling a few words into the notebook in front of him. Dean saw his brother clench his jaw, then suddenly Sam put his pen into the book and slammed it shut. “What did Dad want Dean?,” Sam gritted out, bitchface already firmly in place.

"Uh, he wants us to take care of a ghost at the old Carty place over on Sycamore. Apparently the youngest son just died a couple of weeks ago and the house and contents are being put up for auction. Dad figures all the activity woke up the spirit of old Abigail Carty the matriarch of the family and people are getting hurt. So far, a gardener "accidentally" fell on his shears four days ago and yesterday a guy from the auction house almost got his skull bashed in by a flying chair." Dean figured if he spilled it all out at once, Sam might be interested enough in the facts of the case and forget to argue. 

Sam scowled harder. "Dean," he whined, "I've got my chemistry make-up exam tomorrow. You know, the one my teacher generously arranged for me to re-take because I missed the first one. Because we were hunting that poltergeist," Sam snarked, then sighed and dragged his fingers through his shaggy hair. "I can't miss this test and I need to study for it." Sam stared at Dean with those damn puppy eyes.

Guilt slammed into Dean like a bullet. Sam had missed that exam because Dean screwed up. He was supposed to be covering Sam, but the poltergeist had got past him and tossed Sam into a wall, hard enough to knock the kid out and give him a concussion. Dad had been pissed. That had been just after Christmas and it had only been a couple of weeks since Sam's head had stopped hurting enough for him to read.

Dean didn't care about school for himself, having dropped out a few months before turning 19. Sam didn't need him to look out for him at school by that point and Dad required his help hunting on a more full time basis. So Dean got his GED and called an end to his academic career. But just because he wasn't a scholar himself didn't mean he wasn't proud of Sam's great grades. He knew how important school was to his brother. Firmly stuck between defying his father's orders or upsetting his baby brother, Dean struggled to find a solution.

“Well, how about you come to the library with me and help me do research for a little bit? You can bring your books with you and get some studying done while I sort out the details of the Carty family.” Dean could see Sam waver. The lure of the library was always a strong draw, and by bringing Sam, Dean would have more time to work on finding a way to keep both his brother and his father happy. “C’mon Sam, I’ll even spring for lunch first then you can spend all afternoon getting your geek on,” Dean wheedled. Sam laughed and Dean breathed a sigh of relief knowing that he’d won this battle.

o-o-o-o-o

Sam sat at the large wooden table across from Dean, his school books were spread, but he was focused on the research for the hunt, just as Dean had hoped. Sam had pulled up a website on the history of the town. Apparently the Carty family was one of the founding families of this little burg, and had lived in the big manor house on Sycamore Street since the early 1800's. The most recent and last residents had been Abigail Carty and her sons. The eldest son, Desmond Carty had died overseas way back in WWII, and Abigail herself had passed nine years ago at the advanced age of 86. She had died from a bloody fall down the stairs. Until his recent heart attack and death, her youngest son Bower Carty had lived in the house with her his whole life.

"Get this Dean," Sam said as he waved a handful of print-outs. "It says that Abigail was totally devoted to her sons. I bet that she stayed for him, and him living in the house kept her spirit on an even keel. Until he died, which is when she started getting agitated. It says in this clipping, that she was cremated, so there must still be some remains in the house." Dean rolled his eyes but smothered a smile. Sam was such a geek. It was nice to see his baby brother happy instead of sulky and grumpy, but only Sam could get enthusiastic about ancient history. Still, from what Dean had read himself it sounded like Sam's theory was on the money.

"Sure Sammy, sounds about right. So how about we load up and head over to the house and gank this old bitch's ghostly ass?" Dean let the front legs of the chair he had been balancing in, slam to the wooden floor, drawing a sharp look from the librarian. Sam tucked the sheaf of paper into the crease of his chemistry textbook and slowly gathered his school work into his bag. Dean had to admit, it been a pleasant afternoon spent hanging out with his kid brother, but he was starting to feel that slow build of anticipation he got every time they prepped for a hunt. Slinging his worn leather jacket over his shoulders, Dean made his way to the exit, meeting the disapproving look of the librarian with his most lascivious grin and a wink.

As he drew near to the black sleekness of the Impala, Dean felt a swell of pride. Dad had given her to him a couple of years ago. Knowing that she was now all his never failed to bring a genuine smile to his face, no matter how often he saw his Baby's gleaming lines. But his happiness was short lived since he could sense Sam slinking along behind him. After a lifetime of reading Sam's moods, Dean didn't have to look at his brother to know that the kid was getting pouty. Obviously Sam had something he had to say. Suppressing a weary sigh, Dean stopped short and turned towards the shaggy haired teen.

“What Sam?,” he said, bracing himself for the emo onslaught.

“Look Dean, it’s your birthday. You should be able to do what you want, instead of following Dad’s orders,” Sammy grumbled.

Dean let the sigh pass through his lips loudly. “Geez Sam, I don’t mind. The bar will still be there tomorrow. Besides,” he said rubbing his hands together gleefully “What better way to celebrate than salting and burning an evil son of a bitch with my baby brother.”

Sam stopped with his hand on the passenger door, facing Dean over the roof of the car. “I told you Dean, I’m not going. I have to study.”

Closing the door that he had begun to pull open, Dean hung his head in frustration before giving his brother a cut-me-a-break look. “Come on Sam! It’s a two man job, Dad said..” Sam cut him off throwing his hands in the air dramatically.

“No! I don’t care what Dad said. Maybe you have no problem giving up your plans to jump and salute whenever he orders you to, but I’m sick and tired of it.” Sam’s face was beginning to flush red with anger and he had raised his voice, tossing his hair back from his eyes.

Dean was getting pissed now. "Stop making this into something it isn't," he shouted. Closing his eyes for a second, he made an effort to lower his voice despite the deserted parking lot. "Look, Dad's not doing this to spoil my day Sam, people are in danger and there's a job to do." Why couldn't Sam get it? Hunting things, saving people was important, their job made a difference. And, Dean was good at it. Hell, he even enjoyed it. But he was sick and tired of feeling like he had to apologize for taking pride in his life's work. "Now get in the damn car," Dean shouted again, his temper rising.

"No Dean. If you want to go spend your birthday in a moldy old house with a twisted spirit, be my guest, but I'm not going to waste my time." Sam's eyes were flashing and his most stubborn bitchface was firmly in place. Dean was furious. Jesus Christ why did the kid have to argue about every fucking thing! Dean was done.

"Fine! If your fucking homework is more important than backing me up, then I wouldn't want to waste your precious time Princess. You can fucking walk back to the motel - I've got work to do!" Dean wrenched the driver's door open and jumped into the car. Cranking the engine, he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Sam standing there with books in his arms and a stunned expression on his face.

Dean wasn’t more than 5 minutes down the road before he felt bad. He shouldn’t have left Sam there like that. Sure it was only about a fifteen minute walk back to the motel, but he didn’t like the idea of his brother being alone. Then Dean shook his head, being firm with himself. The kid will be fine. Although the early twilight of the short January days meant that it was dark out, it was barely even 7:00 pm. Sam would be back at the motel room in no time. Besides, Sam would be 16 in a few months, he wasn’t exactly a helpless kid anymore, he could handle himself. Dean gritted his teeth in indecision. Should he circle back and check up on Sam?, or drive over to Sycamore and start caseing the house? He scrubbed a hand down his face. He was so tired of Sam’s attitude. Screw it, Sam would be fine and that ghost won’t gank itself. 

o-o-o-o-o

Sam hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder as he watched the Impala disappear around the corner. It took him a minute to realize that Dean had really left him there! At first Sam didn't know whether to be shocked or angry, but angry easily won out. In fact it seems to be his default setting lately although normally his anger and frustration wasn't normally pointed in Dean's direction. Stuffing the books he held into his bag, Sam turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the motel. "Fine," he thought, "I don't need a babysitter, just to get back to the room." His raging temper and his long legs made short work of the walk and soon he was opening the door to their room. He flung his bag full of books and papers onto the little formica table. Still fuming, he pulled out his Chemistry book, determined to get back to his studying.

A few hours later and Sam's rumbling stomach roused him from the molecules, reactions and elements. He checked his watch and wondered how Dean was doing. Now that he had calmed down, Sam felt bad about how he had acted. It was Dean's birthday after all, maybe he shouldn't have been so bitchy. He felt a stronger twinge of guilt. If Dad felt that the ghost was a two person job, maybe Dean really did need the help. Chewing on his bottom lip in indecision, Sam considered his options. He could stay and wait for Dean - his big brother really could handle himself. Or, he could try and get over to the old Carty house, but it was across the small town and he didn't have any means of transportation other than his own two feet. By the time he made it over there, Dean would likely have the hunt done and be off to the bar.

With no way to reach Dean, Sam figured he'd better stay here. His stomach rumbled again and he went to the fridge to fix himself a sandwich. Taking his PB&J back to the table with a glass of water, he pushed his chemistry notes out of the way. As he chewed Sam idly looked over the pages he had printed about the Carty family. One of the documents he had only skimmed at the library was a newspaper article about Abigail Carty's life that was published when she'd died in 1990. As he ate he read through the article. It was the usual sort of thing, who her parents were, how she had grown up, etc. Suddenly Sam choked on his bite of sandwich. He grabbed his water, but something more than food felt stuck in his throat. He re-read the paragraph he'd just finished.

Despite rumours of Desmond’s bad behaviour and violent temper, Abigail was unusually close with her oldest son. When he was killed in August of 1944, Abigail was distraught and went into deep mourning. The family arranged to have Desmond’s remains returned home and interred locally in the Carty family plot next to his father at Pinegrove cemetery. For the rest of her life Mrs. Carty wore black and her most prized possession was an ornate brooch containing a lock of Desmond’s hair.

"Shit!," thought Sam. A troubled soul, killed violently with physical remains that could still be in the house. Dean might not be dealing with just the ghost of a little old lady, he might have the decades old vengeful spirit of a soldier on his hands too. Pushing back from the table, Sam dumped his books from his school bag and pulled a shotgun loaded with rock salt from the spare weapons under Dad's bed. He tossed in a flashlight, some lighter fluid and a canister of salt. Then he grabbed his jacket and keys and headed out the door. Maybe he was wrong, but he'd better at least let Dean know to be on the lookout for two ghosts, not one.

Sam set off at a fast jog back towards the main street. He could run the whole way across town if he had to, but he was looking for an easy car to steal. Generally a Winchester would never steal a car in a town that they were going to be staying in for a while, but Sam was desperate. A bad feeling was gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. It was probably ridiculous, caused just by reading that stupid article, but Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that Dean was in trouble. Pausing to look around, he spotted a bicycle leaning up against the garage of a house. Silently, Sam crept up the driveway and liberated the 10 speed, careful to avoid being seen. He pedaled purposefully towards the Carty house.

o-o-o-o-o

Dean checked his watch. The young hunter crumpled up the wrapper of his sandwich and tucked it into his now empty coffee cup. He'd done a quick circuit of the exterior of the house, then grabbed some food and come back to sit in the car waiting patiently for the neighbourhood to quiet down. Now, it was just after 9:00 pm, but it was overcast and the waning crescent moon meant that was a very dark night. Figuring he'd need a lot of time to find what was tying old Abigail to the house, Dean decided to get moving. Like a key sliding into place, Dean felt himself lock into the laser focus hunter he had been trained to be. Grabbing his bag of weapons and supplies from the trunk of the car, he drifted through the darkness towards his objective.

The Carty place was a stately home surrounded by a fancy wrought iron fence and shadowed by a number of mature trees. Not big enough to be called a mansion, it still was a big house, tucked back from the street and the neighbouring houses at the end of Sycamore. A single porch light was burning, perhaps as a haphazard attempt at preventing theft, but the rest of the house and grounds were pitch black, just a looming shadow a shade darker than the night itself.

Dean made his way quietly towards the back porch. This part of the house was the farthest from the other homes on the street, and a perfect point of entry. With an efficiency that came from hours and hours of practice under Dad’s critical eye, Dean was able to pick the lock blind, only turning on his flashlight once he was inside the stately building. His soundless steps took him down the hall and away from the windows. Since he had no idea exactly what was tying the ghost to the house, he had a lot of searching ahead of him. Briefly Dean wished that Sam was with him, but he pushed that thought away and pulled the door to the basement open. Lots of things get hidden in a basement, so with heightened stealth, Dean made his way down.

Almost an hour later and Dean was dusty, sweaty and frustrated. He had scoured every inch of the tidy stone basement and found nothing unexpected. Old lady Carty’s ghost hadn’t shown either. Now, he had just about finished sweeping the main floor, being careful to keep his light shielded, and hadn’t found anything either. Most of the furniture had been draped in sheets and the majority of the smaller household items had been removed for auction. There was a large portrait of the Abigail and her sons above the fireplace, but there wasn’t anything hinky about it that Dean could see. His EMF didn’t so much as blip when he waved it over the painting. Making his way to the foyer and the grand curving staircase that led to the top floor, he remembered Sam telling him that the old lady had fallen down these stairs to her death. Stooping to shine his flashlight more clearly on the hardwood floor, Dean noticed a change in the sheen of the floorboards. It was obvious that there had been a rug of some kind removed from the bottom of the staircase. Perhaps blood had soaked into it from Abigail’s body - and if it was still in the house, it could be the remains he was looking for.

Dean had just started up the stairs when a gust of icy wind blasted him. The translucent image of an older woman hovered at the top of the steps. Raising his shotgun, Dean prepared to blast her away. But Mrs. Carty’s ghost paid him zero attention, she simply stepped through the railing and drifted lazily to the ground floor below. Gliding down the hall, the incorporeal form turned the corner and out of sight. Dean huffed out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and continued up the stairs.

There were a number of doors leading off from the upstairs landing, but only one of them was closed, so Dean brought up the shotgun again and gingerly turned the knob. The door creaked open, revealing a large bedroom that seemed frozen in time. There was a double bed with a metal frame and a dusty coverlet, a large fireplace with a couple of wing backed chairs and a wall of shelves with a variety of sporting memorabilia from the early 1940's on display. Sitting propped up against the far wall was a small rolled up rug. "Yahtzee," thought Dean as he moved farther into the room.

He dropped his weapons bag and put his shotgun on one of the chairs within easy reach. The rug looked to be too big to stuff into the fireplace, and Dean didn't want to set the whole house on fire by setting it aflame right on the hardwood floor. Dragging over the rug, he carefully unrolled it. A modest bloodstain marked one corner of the rug. The young hunter pulled a knife out of his bag and carefully began cutting off the stained corner. With his green eyes focused on the task of sawing through the tough carpet fibers, Dean didn't see the ghostly figure coalescing behind him until the bedroom door slammed with a loud bang. Whipping around with reflexes honed by years of training, Dean had his gun in hand ready to blast the ghost. The figure wasn't Abigail Carty as he expected, but rather that of a handsome young man of about 20 or so dressed in a military uniform. Dean recognized Desmond Carty from the painting downstairs. Desmond's spirit flickered and re-formed, this time the luminescent body was missing a leg which was dripping ghostly blood past the protruding bone. The spirit's hands were clutching what Dean thought was a rope, but realized were actually Desmond's own entrails. The ghost soldier opened it's mouth, but Dean felt rather than heard the angry shout of "Mother" as the temperature in the room plummeted by a good 15 degrees. 

The ghost of Abigail drifted through the closed door at her son's call and Dean found himself closed in with two very angry looking ghosts. "Shit!," he thought before a gesture from Desmond sent Dean crashing across the room into the wall of shelves.

o-o-o-o-o

Sam jumped off the stolen bike and leaned it against a fence in the gloom by the Impala. The youngest Winchester was slightly disappointed. The fact that his brother's car was here meant that Dean was still likely searching the house, which meant he could still be in danger. Sam would almost have been happier to find the black car gone, the job done and Dean happily enjoying what was left of his birthday at the local bar. Hell, he would even have preferred if Dean were back at the motel frantically worrying and cursing because his little brother wasn't in their room. But no such luck, Dean was still in the house.

Keeping to the shadows, Sam made his way to the back door. It was unlocked, presumably by Dean and the teenager cautiously crept into the dark and quiet house. He desperately wanted to call out for Dean, but he wasn't stupid. There was no point in letting the ghosts know that he had arrived. He took a cursory look at the clean and organized basement, but Dean wasn't down there. There was also no sign of his brother on the main floor. No salt or expended shotgun shells might mean that all Sam's worry was for nothing, or it might mean something really bad. Bracing himself, he went to the bottom of the staircase leading up to the top floor. Sam froze as he heard a heavy thud and the sound of things falling and breaking. Clutching his salt filled shotgun more tightly, Sam ran up stairs as quickly but as quietly as he could.

Cold air poured out from underneath the closed door on Sam's left. Goosebumps raised on his arms. He could almost taste the faint ozone like smell that ghosts, particularly old ones left and knew that at least Desmond's spirit was in that room. Listening carefully he tried to figure out what was happening. Normally Dean or Dad took point and told him what to do. But Sam wasn't about to abandon Dean. Abruptly, he was startled when something heavy thumped against the other side of the wall he was leaning against. A familiar groan of pain sounded faintly from within the room. Dean! Knowing that his brother was in pain, Sam's heart leapt into his throat. Pushing the door open with his left hand while the right one brought the shotgun to hip height, ready to fire. 

Beside him on the floor was a lump of denim and canvas that Sam recognized as Dean. His heart stopped and he longed to check his brother for injuries, but remembering his training his eyes first swept the room for the threat. The bedroom looked like a tornado had blown through it. The chairs were overturned, the shelving was broken with a jumble of crushed and damaged item on the floor. Even the bed covers were twisted and torn. The ghost of Mrs. Carty manifested across the room, wringing her spectral hands with sad eyes, but she didn't seem to be interested in the brothers. Sam risked bending down and placing his fingers on Dean's pulse point. A sigh of relief shuddered through him as he felt a strong pulse. 

"Dean?, can you hear me?," Sam shook his older brother's shoulder gently, trying to keep the ghost in his sight while checking Dean for injuries. Blood was pouring down one side of Dean's face, but Sam couldn't really see the source. A green eye cracked open and with some effort focused on Sam's face.

"S'mmy? Watch out...two of 'em..," was all Dean could manage before he seemed to drop back into unconsciousness. With his eyes and the gun on Mrs. Carty's ghost, Sam wrapped his left fist in Dean's jacket and began to pull him backwards out the door. Without warning, a heavy wooden desk slid across the wall, essentially blocking the room's only exit other than the second story windows on either side of the bed. Desmond appeared, guts in hand, hatred and fury radiating like cold waves from where he hovered. Pulling the trigger, Sam temporarily blasted the angry spirit back to oblivion. He didn't know how much time he had, but Sam knew his only chance was to find the brooch and destroy it. Hopefully he could learn from Dean what was tying Desmond's mother to the house and then get them both to the safety of the Impala.

Sam propped Dean up carefully against the wall and then began looking for the brooch. He could tell that this room used to be Desmond's and he doubted that the piece of jewelry was in the ghostly soldier's bedroom. Spotting Dean's shotgun, Sam ran, grabbed it and brought it back to his brother who was now groggily shaking his head. Dean was almost as pale as the ghosts except for where Sam could see bruises starting to form. He was pale from the blood loss, and his left arm was held tightly to his body. Sam crouched down to make eye contact with Dean. 

"Hey, Dean? Are you with me?," he hissed urgently. "I need to find the brooch, can you shoot?" Sam pressed the gun into the older man's hands. Dean seemed to understand him because he gave a miniscule nod and took the gun, steadying it across one bended knee.

"Go!," Dean panted and Sam didn't wait any longer. Rather than try and push the big wooden dresser out of the way, the hazel eyed teen simple climbed over it, dragging his bag of supplies with him. The other doors leading from the landing were open, and Sam poked his head around each of them until he found the one he was looking for. The furnishings were outdated, but this room had obviously belonged to the elder Mrs. Carty. The room had been cleared of all the small items, so Sam assumed that the brooch hadn't been with Abigail's other jewelry which was likely being assessed for auction. If it was still here, it wasn't in an obvious place.

A shotgun blast echoed from down the hall, and Sam prayed that Dean was able to protect himself from being tossed around the room some more. On his hands and knees, Sam checked the floor for loose boards, then looked underneath and behind all the furniture. Maybe he was wrong and the brooch was somewhere else in the house. Standing at the end of the bed, Sam tried not to panic. He needed to find it! He debated searching the other rooms, when his eyes skimmed across the fireplace and he saw it. In the fancy carved wooden mantle, there was a complex pattern of vines, leaves and flowers, but subtly included in one particularly ornate area of carving were the letters D.A.C. Desmond Arthur Carty. Sam pushed his fingers into and around the initials until he felt a small notch. Pulling out his pocketknife, he was able to pry on the wood until he heard a tiny pop and a small door clicked open. There in the little alcove was a silver brooch.

Another blast of the gun came from down the hall. Sam wasn't sure if Dean had more shells in his pockets, but knew that he had to destroy the brooch and the lock of hair embedded in it before he could do anything to save his brother. His hands trembled as he placed the fancy pin onto the stone hearth. Pulling the salt and lighter fluid from his bag he liberally doused the jewelry with both. Finally he scrambled to get the pack of matches from the bag.

A fresh blast of cold made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and Sam knew he was out of time. Frantically he lit the whole pack of matches and threw them onto the salty object. He saw the lighter fluid catch and begin to burn just before he felt himself fly across the room to hit the wall. The air was knocked out of his chest, but Sam kept his eyes on the spirit of Desmond who was coming towards where he lay on the floor. His shotgun was on the bed where he had placed it, and Sam realized that even if he could catch his breath and move, he wouldn't reach it before the angry ghost flung him again. As phantom hands reached out again, suddenly Desmond stopped. A shudder ran through the former soldier as he burst into flames, a wailing cry of "Mother!" echoing through the room before the ghost was gone.

Panting Sam rolled onto his back, trying to catch his breath before sitting up, his back was sore where he had impacted the wall, but he was OK. The house was strangely quiet, the hissing and spitting from the little fire on the hearth, the only sound. Groaning Sam pushed himself up, gathered his gun and bag and made his way back towards his brother. There was still Mrs. Carty to deal with.

Sam prepared to climb over the dresser again when it was shunted to the side as if it weighed nothing. He stepped into the room to see the ghost of Abigail Carty hovering in the center of the ravaged room, her hand still outstretched towards the heavy chest of drawers. A soft golden glow began to fill the room and the teenaged hunter found his breath catching in his throat from the intense beauty of the light. Abigail's body began to glow too as if she were absorbing the light waves. Sam shielded his eyes as the light went from luminous to blazing. With a solemn nod at the brothers, the ghost flared one more and then disappeared leaving the room dark and Sams eyes watering from the after images on his retinas.

o-o-o-o-o

Dean lowered his gun, blinking as the old lady's ghost dissolved into the dazzling glow. He turned his head with a barely suppressed groan to look at Sam standing just inside the doorway. The kid was supposed to be safe back at the room. Sam seemed a little stunned by the sudden end to the danger, but at least, other than that he looked fine. Dean heaved a sigh of relief and started to push up to his feet, one hand on the wall while the other clutched his ribs. No doubt they had at least been cracked when the damn ghost of Desmond had thrown him into the shelves. Or the wall, or the stone fireplace, or the metal bed frame. Still, they needed to get going in case the sound of gunfire had alerted any of the neighbours. The older brother hissed with pain and instantly Sam was by his side.

“You Ok Dean?,” Sam asked sliding underneath Dean’s shoulder. 

“Peachy,” Dean snarked, his voice a lot less steady than he would like. “How about you? Did Desmond get ya Sammy?”

“Nah, I’m fine Dean. I took care of him.” Dean detected a small sliver of pride in Sam’s tone.

Dean let Sam guide them towards the stairs, pausing only to grab the two bags of weapons. The staircase seemed a lot longer going down than it had going up, and it seemed to take forever to get back to the main floor. Gritting his teeth, Dean tried to take on more of his own weight as the brothers made their way to where Baby sat waiting in the darkness. Once they got to the darkly gleaming car, Dean shoved off his smaller sibling and made for the driver’s door.

“C’mon Dean, you’re in no condition to drive,” Sam whined, his look of concern evident even in the dim moonlight. Sam reached for the keys, but Dean kept a tight hold on them. Dean was stubborn and although he was grateful for his kid brother’s help, he’d be damned if he’d let the 15 year old drive him home like a fricken’ invalid.

"Uh,uh, I'll be fine kiddo," Dean said while wiping blood from his face and eye with his bandana. He knew that he probably had a concussion, but he'd driven with worse and it wasn't very far to the motel. He pulled the door open and gingerly lowered himself into the comfort of the Impala's leather seat. Sam huffed, but went around to the other side and got in. Dean put the keys in the ignition, but didn't turn them, just taking a moment to pull himself together and draw comfort from his car. His head and his ribs hurt, and he was sore all over, but he'd be fine in a few days.

A soft voice floated from the other side of the car. "I'm sorry Dean. I should have gone with you like Dad wanted, and I should have noticed that Desmond's ghost was still in the picture. I'm sorry I let you down." Sam's voice was practically dripping with guilt and Dean knew that if he looked over, he'd see his brother's kicked-puppy eyes. But Dean could never resist his brother and he knew that he was ultimately to blame, both for storming off and for now reviewing the research carefully himself. Dean risked a look at Sam and saw that his brother was close to tears.

“Hey now, none of that,” he said gently, reaching out to put his hand on Sam’s neck. “Hey, listen to me, Sammy. If you hadn’t come when you did…” he trailed off, not wanting to admit how out of hand this hunt had gotten. “Well, I’m glad you did OK? Look, I’m sorry about earlier too, I shouldn’t have driven off like that.” Seeing Sam cry pulled at Dean’s heart in a way nothing else could, so he gave Sammy’s neck a squeeze and smiled at the kid. “OK,” Dean asked? Sam gave a short nod and a dimpled smile of his own.

“Yeah….Happy Birthday Dean.”

Dean ruffled Sam’s hair before turning back to start the car. “Let’s get you home.”


	5. 5 by 5 B

January 24, 2004 - Corry, PA

Dean shot upright in bed, his gun firmly in his grip even though he'd been soundly asleep a few seconds ago. He scanned the dingy motel room, but didn't see any threat. That's when he realized that the alarm clock was what had pulled him so suddenly from his much needed rest.

…EXPECT A LIGHT DUSTING OF SNOW THIS AFTERNOON. IN NEWS FROM WASHINGTON, THE BUSH ADMINISTRATION WANTS TO BOOST MILITARY SPENDING BY 7%...

Slapping one hand down on the clock radio to stop the damn noise, Dean scrubbed his bleary eyes with the other. He and Dad got in just after dawn last night, having spent the last 3 days tracking a skinwalker that was terrorizing this small Pennsylvania town. They'd gotten the son of a bitch last night, but not before the monster had gotten a chance to throw Dean around. He was stiff and sore and not very happy at being jolted awake.

Looking around Dean discovered that his Dad wasn't in the small room and that the bathroom door was open meaning his old man was not in the shower. Shooting a glance at the clock that had woken him up, Dean saw that it was almost 10:00 am. His eyes landed on a folded piece of notepaper, obviously torn from a yellow lined pad. "Dean" was scrawled in his Dad's messy writing on the front. The chill in the room helped Dean wake up somewhat as he opened the message.

I caught a lead that I had to run down. I'll get in touch in a few days. Check out is at 10:30. Happy Birthday, don't over do it.

A couple of twenty dollar bills slid out of the folded paper into Dean's lap. "Figures," thought Dean, "Dad could have woken me up instead of ditching me here." Now what was he supposed to do?

Dropping both the gun and the note on the crumpled bedspread, he swung his legs around to perch on the side of the bed. Obviously Dad had set the alarm to make sure he made check out, but Dean felt like he was moving at a snail's pace. The warm blankets were tempting since he had nowhere to go and nothing specific to do. And that was part of the problem. Dean felt both restless and exhausted at the same time. He always needed to be busy, yet lately, some days it just seemed like too much effort to even get out of bed. If he was honest with himself, he had felt that way pretty much since his last phone call with Sam. "Well," he snorted to himself, "if you can call screaming at each other talking." Dragging a hand down his face, he pushed to his feet and made his way to the bathroom.

Stepping out of the shower, ten minutes later, Dean took a moment to check himself out in the mirror. The hot water had helped loosen him up, but bruises from the skinwalker were beginning to appear as dark red blotches against his pale skin. In a few days they would turn purple, then greenish yellow, and a few days after that, they would be gone. "Just like my family," thought Dean bitterly. Dean couldn't be bothered shaving, so he collected his stuff from the tiny bathroom and went to stuff it into his duffle. Pulling on his cleanest jeans and a fresh shirt, he swept the room, packing all his gear and making sure his father had left nothing behind.

Dean slid behind the wheel of his Baby after checking out. The car was normally a source of comfort, many of his fondest memories having taken place here. But today, his eyes strayed towards the empty passenger seat and he clenched his jaw. Oh how he wished a certain shaggy headed kid was riding shotgun. You'd think after all this time, he'd stop looking and wishing. Dean chewed on his lip pensively but then pushed that thought down, locking it up with all the other Sam related worries he didn't want to think about. Bobby had mentioned that he'd spoken with Sammy just last week, so Dean knew the kid was doing fine. Sam was happy, doing his own thing in sunny California. Dean started up the powerful engine and heading out towards the open road.

o-o-o-o-o

Dean pulled into the diner outside of Louisville. He'd had nothing but Gas-N-Sip coffee and some jerky all day. He was starving and needed to get out of the car for a while and this was the only place that he'd seen. Turning up the collar on his jacket, he made his way across the frigid parking lot. It was just after 7 pm, so the place was pretty empty, the dinner rush over. Dean looked at a booth, but they all seemed too big for just one, so he took a seat at the counter. A middle aged waitress appeared with a pot of coffee and a menu. Her name tag read Sandy and she efficiently filled his mug while producing cutlery and a paper napkin seemingly out of thin air.

"What can I get ya, Honey," she said meeting his eyes, pen poised above her order pad.

"Uh, gimme a Hot Brown and a slice of Derby pie." Dean was hungry, and decided to forgo his usual cheeseburger. He figured when in Rome.

"Sure thing, Hon," and then Sandy put in his order and went back to cleaning tables.

Dean stared into his steaming cup of coffee, road weary and aching for something he couldn't identify. He pulled out his phone and checked for messages. There was nothing. Despite the harsh words they had exchanged a couple of months ago, he'd secretly hoped that Sam might have called to wish him a happy birthday. He looked around the small diner. There were a few other people there. A man with a folded newspaper sat a few stools down from him eating and reading. At the far end of the counter there was a truck driver type, intent on inhaling his food, and in a booth by the window there was older woman. She was nursing a milkshake and writing feverishly into a notebook. Dean recognized himself a little in each island of humanity and it made him uncomfortable. If these people had anywhere better to go on a Saturday evening, there would be there. That much they had in common.

The young hunter shook his head. Of course he was different, these people were civilians, they had no idea what was out there, what Dean had seen and done and killed so that they could sit in peace in this diner. More so than usual, Dean felt the barrier that kept him from connecting with others. After he'd eaten his meal, he'd be gone again, as if he'd never been here. It was always going to be like that, he was a hunter. Hunters weren't allowed the luxury of friends or family, not if they were smart. But that was the life and he knew the score. Dean frowned as he grappled with his thoughts.

Sandy returned with his meal. She gave him a warm smile and and a top-up for his coffee. "Smile Honey, it can't be that bad," she said, patting his hand before moving on to refill other cups.

Slightly shocked that the crack in his armour had been visible, Dean forced a smile and picked up his fork.

o-o-o-o-o

Palo Alto, CA

Sam picked at his ramen noodles with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He was heartily sick of the cheap and easy dish. No matter what you added or how you tried to make it better, ramen was still just soggy noodles. But, Sam had to be careful with his budget so he'd make do. Most days he was content with his poor cooking and the lack of variety - after all, he was living his dream, going to a prestigious University, getting good grades and making friends. Life was good. But some days, his mind drifted to the hundreds of meals Dean had cooked in tiny motel rooms and rundown rentals, and it was hard not to feel lonely and wish for home and family. Of course if he told any of his friends or classmates that home was a sleek, black, classic car and family meant an annoying, smart ass of an older brother, they would think he was crazy.

Pushing the remains of his dinner to the side, Sam pulled out his text book. He'd worked a double shift today so what he really wanted was some mindless TV and a good night's sleep, but it was important to keep on top of his studies. Sam had to pick up extra work whenever he could which meant that when he had some spare time, he had to reach ahead a little in his reading to be sure that he was prepared. But tonight, the case studies couldn't seem to keep his interest. He was tired, but restless and his room seemed much too quiet.

Sam was fully aware that today was his brother's 25th birthday. With a sigh, Sam grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He thought about calling Dean, but he didn't want to admit how much he missed his brother, and he knew that if he heard Dean's voice, he'd probably apologize, and he refused to do that. Sure, he missed Dean, but he was also angry with him. They hadn't spoken in a few months - ever since the argument. Sam refused to feel bad for wanting a different life, for being his own man and making his own choices. And the last thing Sam needed was a repeat of their screaming match. Shutting down his phone, he shoved it into his pocket and snatched up his wallet and jacket. It was Saturday night. If he walked down to the Greek houses he could probably snag a free beer and maybe the noise of a frat party would shake off his crummy mood.

Red solo cup in hand, Sam was soon leaning against a palm tree. He had found a free beer and despite the early hour, the party was in full swing. He tried to stay inconspicuous considering he hadn't technically been invited. Some of the Greeks had tried to get him to rush in freshman year, but Sam couldn't justify the distraction. He had too much to figure out when he first arrived on campus, including how to do things he hadn't realized that Dean did for their family.

When living on the road with his brother and father, Dean made sure that Sam had food to eat and clothes to wear. His brother had figured out how to do laundry and make meals out of random items and repair practically anything. Dean also managed the money Dad left, and somehow when the money had run out, Dean had found some way to get more. But Sam had never really had to set a budget, or worry about how to stretch a dollar, or even apply for a job. It was embarrassing now as an adult to discover just how protected and sheltered he really had been as a child. Sam appreciated his brother even more now that he had to figure everything out for himself.

Sam pulled out his phone again. Despite the angry words they had exchanged in October, Sam wanted to hear his brother's voice. After all Dean had done for him, the least he could do was call and wish Dean a happy birthday. He flipped his phone open, but instead of coming to life, it flashed the low battery symbol. He'd have to wait until he got home to make the call. He dragged his fingers through his hair, maybe it was a good thing that he couldn't call Dean. Really, what could he say that he hadn't already said? This back and forth with his brother exhausted him and he had to focus on his studies. Probably he should forget calling, ditch his beer and head back to his room for some sleep. Just when he had decided to do exactly that, Lance from one of his classes stepped in front of him.

"Hey Sam, I didn't know you were a Greek," Lance said, his artfully faded Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt in sharp contrast to Sam's plain navy Walmart tee.

Sam flashed a slightly sheepish smile. "I'm not, but I needed a study break and this seemed like the place to be," Sam lied as easily as breathing. Benefits of a Winchester upbringing. Lance simply gave Sam a knowing nod and then began to talk about a concept from class. Forgetting his phone for a while, the youngest Winchester indulged his love of learning and soon was fully engaged in debating ideas with Lance and a few other pre-law students who had drifted into the conversation.

o-o-o-o-o

After dinner, Dean had driven another few hours and had finally stopped at a motel somewhere near the border between Kentucky and Illinois. Normally, he'd get cleaned up and hit the local watering hole. He'd have a few beers, hustle a bit of pool or something, and find someone warm and willing to keep him company for the rest of the night. But tonight, not only did that seem unappealing, he just didn't have the energy. He sat listlessly on the end of the room's single bed. Snow had started to fall outside the window and the room was cold and profoundly quiet. Although his father was not a chatty guy, at least when he was around there was the sound of a turned page, the scratch of a pen or the clink of a glass. Sometimes they'd even discuss the case they were working or more rarely watch the game together.

Grabbing the remote from the night table, Dean turned on the crappy TV. Most of the channels were a mess of static, but he found some old western and left it on mute. He stared at the grainy picture, not really following the action. Reaching into his duffle, he dug a worn hoodie from the depths of the bag and tugged it on. The fact that it had once belonged to Sam was something that he chose to ignore. He flipped open his phone and out of habit checked his messages. Nothing. Dean scrolled through his contacts to Sam's number, his thumb hovered over the dial button. He hesitated for a long moment, the silence in the room almost pushing against his eardrums. He wanted to hear Sam's voice. The first year or so when Sam was at Stanford, he had called his brother every week or two. But over time, they had less and less to talk about. Sam's life was about books and classes and the day to day of student life. Dean's life was about research and monsters and killing. Their lives had become fully separate for the first time. Sam knew exactly what he wanted, but Dean...well, for a couple of weeks he had considered the possibility of something else, something with Cassie. A life different somehow from what he had ended up with. "And look how that had turned out," he reminded himself sourly. The middle Winchester flipped his phone closed and slapped it roughly on the table.

Dean needed something to do, or he was going to go crazy. Fetching a beer from the mini-fridge, he popped the cap off with his ring and plunked down at the table. Yanking the weapons bag from underneath his bed, he got to work. With an efficiency gained from years of experience, the young hunter began field stripping and cleaning every gun in the bag. He worked methodically, but as his hands moved, his thoughts once again drifted to Sam. How was the kid really doing? Was he working too hard? Was he remembering to eat? Had he met a girl? More importantly, was he still pissed at his big brother? With a sigh Dean dropped his head into his hands. He was tired, body and soul, and tonight in this lonely motel room he felt a lot older than his 25 years. "Geez, get it together," he scolded himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. He grabbed his keys, wallet and phone off the table and locked the motel room door behind him.

o-o-o-o-o

The bar was loud, dark and grimy. The blonde leaned across the table towards Dean, the movement pushing her considerable cleavage further into view. She smiled at him and wrapped her red pout around the straw of her fruity cocktail. Dean gave her a smile, but it was a far cry from his usual cocky grin. He really didn't care about Sandy (or was it Shandy.) It would be easy to get her into bed, but what was the point. He finished his beer and signaled the waitress for another, pointedly ignoring Shandy (or was it Mandy.) Dean would have paid his tab and left if he had anywhere to go except a too quiet motel room.

The waitress placed his beer on the table beside Dean's phone. The green eyed hunter casually checked his phone again as he reached for the fresh drink. Even though he kept telling himself that it didn't matter, he couldn't stop checking. "Geez, ya waiting for your wife to call?" whined Mandy (or was it Candy) with a petulant toss of her hair.

"Hey sweetheart," he waited until she met his eyes, "shove off," he said coldly, suddenly tired of the game and her company. Flashing him her middle finger, Candy (or was it Sandy) slid out of the booth with a huff. Dean watched her short skirt as she made a bee-line towards another guy sitting solo at the bar. Leaning back Dean took another swallow of beer. A rowdy cry of excitement rose over the music and the smoke of the place from somewhere across the room. A crowd had gathered around the dart boards. If he wasn't going to get laid, the least he could do was make a few bucks so picking up his phone, beer and jacket, he headed over.

o-o-o-o-o

Palo Alto, CA

Sam unlocked the door of his room. Out of a lifetime of habit, he stepped over an then checked the salt line just inside the door. He'd actually had a good time tonight. A group of them had ended up moving from the raucous frat party to a nearby cafe where they drank coffee and debated the ethics of certain legal concepts until the shop had closed. He'd begged off the rest of the group who were going to continue the discussion at Lance's apartment because he really did need to get some sleep before he went to work tomorrow. Tonight he had relaxed, forgetting about the stress of classes, and money and his argument with Dean. He walked over to his desk and plugged his phone into charge. Then cleaning up the congealed remains of his dinner, he jumped into the shower to get ready for bed.

A few minutes later he was clean and dry, climbing into a pair of sweats and an old Led Zepplin t-shirt to sleep. The t-shirt had once been Dean's and was was crazy soft and worn. It was actually a little small on him now, but it reminded him of his brother and the chasm that had grown between them. Dean had been the person who had practically raised him, who he could turn to for anything and yet somehow his brother had sided with their father and turned into this Hunter who felt like he had the right to judge and criticize Sam's life. How had they got to this place? Fetching his phone, he sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the little device. Sam wondered what his brother was doing right now. Was he safe? Was he happy? Was Dad watching his back? Of course it was most likely that Dean was in a bar somewhere hustling pool and chatting up some female companionship. Still Sam never stopped worrying about his big brother, no matter how mad he was. It's just that they didn't seem to have anything to talk about lately. And when they did talk, every conversation seemed to end up in an argument. Sam wanted Dean to think for himself and break away from Dad and their father's iron grip, something Dean would never do. There didn't seem to be any middle ground. Sam sighed heavily. Flipping open his phone he pulled up Dean's number.

o-o-o-o-o

Dean walked into his room several hundred dollars richer than he had left it. Hustling darts had finally shaken him out of his funk and he'd actually enjoyed himself tonight. OK, maybe it wasn't the best birthday ever, but it beat sitting around moping. Dean moved to toss his wallet and phone onto the bed and caught a whiff of himself. He stank of sweat, booze, smoke and cheap perfume, and the whiskers on his face that he had ignored this morning were itchy. He jumped into the shower and quickly washed. Then he shaved his face, brushed his teeth and got into fresh boxers and his favourite Metallica t-shirt. It was only about 1:30 am, but Dean figured he'd get some sleep and head out early in the morning.

Climbing into the scratchy sheets, Dean went to put his wallet and phone on the night stand when his phone made a soft bleeping noise. Flipping it open there was a message alert letting him know that someone had called in the few minutes he'd been in the shower. Thumbing the message, he played the voicemail.

"Uh hey Dean, it's Sam. I wasn't sure if I should call because I don't want to argue. We live different lives now and all we seen to do is fight. I wish things were better between us. I just want the best for you and I sincerely hope you're happy hunting with Dad….I just don't….I can't…" Sam stuttered to a halt, and sighed deeply. "I wanted to let you know that I was thinking about you today. But…maybe, it's best if we don't talk for a while. Not forever but…I'll call you…," his voice drifted away. Dean could almost hear Sam searching for the right words. Instead he heard another sigh, "Anyway, happy birthday Dean."

The message ended, and Dean flipped the phone closed slowly. He pressed it to his bowed forehead, arms wrapped tightly around his bent knees. Unwanted tears sprang to his eyes as he clutched the phone. He'd lost his kid brother, the one person most important to him in the whole world. And he couldn't even be mad. He wanted Sam to be happy and safe more than anything. So why did he feel like his heart had just been ripped from his chest? Dean sat there a long time hunched against the headboard tears silently dripping off his face to dampen the rough motel blanket stretched across his knees. Eventually he rubbed his wet eyes with one hand and solemnly put the phone back on the night table. He turned off the light and slid down to lie on his back in the bed, green eyes staring unseeing at the splotchy ceiling as the darkness crept inevitably towards the dawn.


	6. XXX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title there is no smut here. Dean's birthday falls in the 2 month gap between 4.16 "On the Head of a Pin" and 4.17 "It's a Terrible Life." For such a large gap in the timeline, (late December to March) I figured that not only did Dean need the time to physically heal after Alastair's beating, but emotionally there was a lot going on.

January 24, 2009

Dean sat, propped against the headboard staring at the shadow patterns the moonlight formed on the ceiling. A glance at his watch told him that it was after 3 am. Sam's steady, even breathing in the other bed and the comfortable sounds of Bobby's house popping and creaking in the January cold should have made sleep easy to come by, but Dean was wide awake. His mind refused to turn off, as his thoughts careened violently between gnawing fear and crushing responsibility.

He'd been topside for a little more than 4 months now, slightly more than the amount of time he had been in Hell. But being at Alastair's mercy again had made him feel like he'd never left the Pit. He was jumpy and as twitchy as a virgin on prom night. If he was truly honest, he was scared right down to his bones and had been since he was resurrected. Oh he'd tried. He'd tried so damn hard to get back to normal. But then, Castiel had thrown him into the past where he met his grandparents and Mom. That had been mind blowing. He'd wanted very much to stop the Yellow Eyed Demon before their whole shit show of a life got started, but all he seemed to do was watch as his mother made a deal that ultimately damned both her sons.

Then, he focused on being mad at Sam. To discover that while he was gone, the kid had been screwing around with Ruby and tapping into his freaky demon blood powers, frightened him in new ways. Seeing Sammy take out Samhain had driven icy shards of fear even deeper into Dean's heart. How was he supposed to protect his brother from what was literally in his blood? Especially when Sam seemed to be getting deeper and deeper into this addiction of his. Being angry had been a great distraction, allowing him to forget for whole minutes at a time just how terrified he was of losing Sam to the darkness within the younger man. After all, if Alistair had broken Dean, how was Sam going to avoid succumbing to his own dark side when he had actual demon blood coursing through his veins. Dean's memory flashed to the vision he'd had while suffering from the ghost sickness. Sam with yellow eyes. Dean shuddered despite the warmth in the small bedroom.

He glanced at the sleeping form in the other bed. A splash of moonlight pierced the curtain, casting Sam's face into sharp relief. His face was peaceful in sleep, reminding Dean of the trusting child that his brother had been before he'd learned about monsters. With a soft sigh, Dean hunkered down and tried to find a comfortable position despite his still healing ribs. He wanted to sleep, hoping for at least a little while, to let go of all the fear, and guilt and pain. But his brain still churned with uncontrollable thoughts.

Oddly, confessing to his brother about what he'd done in Hell had helped mitigate the fear he was struggling with a little bit. He had been terrified that Sammy would reject him and leave disgusted, once he knew the horrible truth about his big brother and what Dean had done. Shit, it could still happen. It was like waiting for the other shoe to fall. Dean wouldn't blame Sam if he did leave. Sam couldn't absolve him of the horrible guilt and anguish he felt. That unfillable hole seemed to gape within his gut, no closer to closing no matter how many people he saved. But Sam might be the only thing holding him together right now.

He rolled over, carefully adjusting his knee, still braced from where he'd had surgery to repair the damage Alistair had inflicted. With another sigh, he realized that he'd let his thoughts circle back to the evil son of a bitch and the ill fated torture session that the angels had engineered. Alistair had been right, the demon seemed never to leave dean's "angsty little noggin" no matter how hard Dean tried to move on. "As he breaks, so shall it break" ran through his mind in a constant loop these days. Everything, the entire the mess they were in now, the bloody Apocalypse itself was all on him. It was all his fault because he was too weak to resist the demon's offer.

Dean remembered what he had told Tessa, the reaper in Wyoming, that he wished he'd just gone with her back when they first met. If he had died back then, his Dad would still be alive, Sammy wouldn't have taken up with Ruby, he'd never have met Alistair and wouldn't have started the end of the damned world. Dean had sincerely considered taking himself out. In fact he'd debated it endlessly in these two weeks since he'd left the hospital. One bullet to the brain and all the fear and worry would be gone. Two things stopped him every time he reached for his gun. The first is that he couldn't leave Sammy again. When the hellhounds had killed him back in May, it had driven Sam over the deep end. Hell of a birthday present he had given his little brother. Dean just couldn't leave him alone in Ruby's clutches. God knows how far the kid would fall. The second thing was the frightening realization that the angels wouldn't let him die. If they had been willing to go all the way to Hell to pull him out the first time, Dean seriously doubted they'd let him off himself. So the coward's way was off the table, no matter how appealing it seemed during the long days he dealt with Sam's fussing and Bobby's grousing and his own dark thoughts.

o-o-o-o-o

Dean woke to sunlight warming his skin. He'd obviously fallen asleep at some point, and Sam must have opened the curtains. The light felt good on the bare skin of his arms and helped banish some of the gloomy thoughts he'd been grappling with during the night. He'd have liked to lie there longer. Maybe he could just fall asleep until the Apocalypse was over, but his bladder and the distant smell of coffee were urging him to get out of bed. Grabbing the crutch that Sam had placed by the bed, he carefully hauled himself out of the blankets and onto his feet.

After a trip to the bathroom, he made his way down stairs with the cautious hop step that he'd perfected over the past few weeks. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he heard his name and stayed hidden around the corner from the kitchen. Sam and Bobby were having what was obviously a heated discussion about him, and Dean had no qualms about eavesdropping.

"It will kill your brother if you leave him now Sam!," Bobby spat, his voice gruffer than usual.

"You think I don't know that? You think I haven't seen how close Dean's been to eating his gun these past few weeks?," Sam hissed back, obviously fighting to keep from shouting. Dean felt Sam's words like a blow. Had his thoughts been that obvious? He'd thought he had hidden those feelings where no one could see them. He focused back on Sam's voice as the younger man continued.

"Look, I don't like it either but we're running out of time. Dean's struggling, and he's still healing. Tangling with Alistair really messed him up, but Lilith is still out there breaking seals. We don't have the time to sit and wait until Dean gets himself together." Sam paused and adopted a calmer, more confident tone. "You know I'm right, Bobby."

The grizzled old hunter sighed and Dean could almost see him take off his dirty truckers cap and run a hand over his head before replacing the battered hat. "Castiel said that Dean was the only one who could stop this whole mess. You gonna go against the angels on this Sam?," worry practically vibrated in Bobby's tone, but his brother just made an audible snort of disgust.

"The angels haven't exactly been helpful so far," Sam said angrily. "They let Dean almost get beaten to death, and now they've dumped this burden on him. How is Dean supposed to stop the Apocalypse, huh? He's still trying to deal with the shit that went down in Hell. He's just not strong enough right now, and…" His rant stuttered to a halt as Bobby interrupted.

"Oh, and you're strong enough kid? You're going to do what - go and hunt Lilith by yourself?" Bobby sounded frustrated.

"Maybe," Sam hedged, arrogant in a way Dean had never heard before. "And I wouldn't be by myself," Sam said. Dean knew full well that the only one who would hunting Lilith with his brother would be Ruby. His hands clenched into fists at the idea of Sam trusting Ruby to watch his back. Not wanting to hear any more, Dean took a few steps back towards the stairs and purposely stepped on the creaky floorboard to announce his presence. When he entered the kitchen, Bobby was re-filling his coffee cup and Sam was sitting placidly at the table.

"Hey Dean, how you feeling?," Sam asked as if he hadn't been plotting to ditch his older brother 5 seconds ago. Dean tried hard to smooth his face into a neutral expression.

"Fine, ribs seem better. Any coffee left for me?," the crutch wielding man made his way to the steaming pot on the counter and poured himself a cup, keeping his back to Sam. He took a sip of the hot beverage. It seemed to help fortify Dean. Now that he knew that Sam was planning to leave, Dean would be damned again before letting his hurt and frustration show on his face. He glanced at Bobby and doggedly changed the subject as he swallowed down his emotions with his coffee. "So, what's on the agenda for today." God bless Bobby who took the opening Dean lobbed his way.

"Well, I was gonna run down to Omaha to pick up some parts I ordered for that El Camino. You can come along for the ride if you wanna. You've been cooped up in here for a while now and could use the fresh air," Bobby spared Sam a dour glance before turning a warmer gaze on Dean.

"Sure, sounds like a plan," Dean replied. "What are you gonna do Sam?," he asked his little brother, not sure if he wanted an answer, but trying to pretend that everything was as normal as possible.

"I was going to run up to Minneapolis. The university library there looks like it might have some lore books that could be useful." Although Sam looked like his usual nerdy self, eager to get into some books, Dean knew that the younger man's trip to the bigger city was really an excuse for quality time with Ruby. And maybe the first step in leaving Dean's sorry, crippled ass behind. Gulping a slug of coffee, Dean worked to keep the tears that sprang to his eyes from showing. Slapping the mug on the counter, he pushed off urgently, needing out of the suddenly airless room.

"I'm gonna grab a shower," he threw over his shoulder as he hustled out of the kitchen as fast as his crutch would let him. He clumped back up the stairs ashamed at how awkward and slow he was moving. Dean grabbed some clothes from the bedroom and then locked himself in the bathroom. Only once he was alone in the privacy of the small room did he sag, leaning his forehead against the cool tile of the wall. So this is how he was going to lose Sam. First his baby brother would leave him behind and replace him with a demon. He knew it was coming, but it still felt like something was ripping his guts out and he was unable to breathe around the crushing pain in his chest. Then, he'd lose his kid to Heaven or Hell.

Once Sam had left to chase down Lilith, Ruby would drag his brother so far into darkness that he'd be lost or the angels would take him out. Either idea was even worse than the physical absence of his brother. After all, he'd coped with that during Sam's time at Stanford. Dean hung his head and let a few tears slid down his stubbled cheeks. The words he had told Cole Griffiths when the young ghost was frightened of following Tessa, echoed back to him. He had told the boy that staying here was a whole lot worse than anything on the other side because one day his family would be gone and there would be nothing left for him. It seemed like his own words were coming true. If he lost Sam, his family would be truly gone and there would be nothing left.

Dean leaned against the wall for a long time, exhausted and despairing. Hearing footsteps in the hallway, he forced himself to turn on the shower, stripped awkwardly out of his sleep clothes and hop gingerly under the hot spray. Once washed and dressed, Dean made his way back downstairs.

"Ya ready to get going," Bobby asked.

"Uh, sure. Did Sam leave already?," Dean asked, dreading the answer. The two men made their way outside towards Bobby's truck.

"Yep, he wanted to get going," Bobby answered. Dean stopped when he spotted the gleaming black curves of his beloved Baby. Sam had left the Impala. In Dean's mind that made it certain that Sam wasn't planning to come back. His brother knows how much the car means to Dean, so Sam would never take it. But, if he was simply making a road trip for the day, there would be no reason to leave it behind. A wave of emotion hit him which he suppressed with practiced ease. Misunderstanding Dean's hesitation Bobby continued, "Sam asked to borrow a car, so I loaned him that grey Honda that I've been fixin'. It still leaks oil a bit, but it will get him there and back just fine Dean." The younger man was sure that Bobby was trying to puzzle out what Dean already knew. Sam had left and didn't even say goodbye.

The last thing Dean wanted to do was make the drive to Omaha, but even he figured it probably wasn't a good idea for him to stay at the house alone. "Yeah, let's go," was all he said as he swung himself into the truck.

o-o-o-o-o

Bobby glanced over at the young man in the passenger seat. Dean was asleep, or else faking it really well. The kid had been too quiet all day. Bobby had tried to find the spark that used to live in Dean's eyes by taking him for a Reuben sandwich and a slice of raisin pie at the best diner in Omaha. But not only did Dean barely touch his food, he didn't so much as smile at the pretty waitress who was trying to catch Dean's green eyes. Dean was suffering and Bobby just didn't know what to do for the kid. Sam was usually the moody one. Growing up, Dean was all motion and sound. He'd had a smart mouth for as long as Bobby had known the boys and the little boy had only ever been still and silent when he was dead asleep. Today Dean had barely said a dozen words.

The first time he'd met John's boys was when the elder Winchester had come for some advice on a tricky salt and burn. Daniel Elkins had sent him Bobby's way and discovering that John had kids, Bobby had been reluctant to steer John further into the hunting life. But the young man was determined, intent on finding the thing that had taken the boys' mother. John had loved his kids. Even an old grump like him could see that clear as day. But finding Mary's killer seemed to harden John in a way. By the time Sammy was knee high John had essentially handed his youngest over to Dean to raise. Bobby had done his best to try and let the boys have a childhood as much as could be done, but he'd been too late for Dean. That kid was Sam's parent almost more than John was, so Bobby had cut the kid some slack for the wise ass attitude that even as a child Dean had worn like armour.

The junk man rolled his stiff shoulders as he forced himself to focus on the road and not the sleeping young man beside him. He was a hunter, not a psychologist. Trying to find some way to break through to Dean was exhausting and Bobby was more worried than he'd ever been. Dean was so quiet and withdrawn, and Sam was uncharacteristically cocky and single minded, oddly reminding Bobby of the boy's daddy. Usually the best medicine for whatever ailed the Winchester brothers, was each other. Just put them together they balanced one another, in ways they probably didn't even realize. When they tackled problems as a team, there were practically unstoppable. And despite their young ages, they were probably the best damn hunters he'd ever known. But this whole angel/demon tug of war seemed to be breaking them up, something he truly hadn't thought possible. In the secret part of his heart, the old hunter considered these boys the closest thing he'd ever have to kids of his own. They were his family and he'd give his right arm to make this right for them if he only knew how. These two idjits were going to be the death of him.

Bobby pulled into Singer Salvage. The familiar old house was dark and silent. Obviously Sam hadn't made it home yet. That put a damper in the old hunter's plans. He'd wanted to surprise Dean with a birthday supper of his famous steaks and homemade mac and cheese. But if Sam wasn't there, it wasn't gonna be much of a celebration. He sighed again and shook Dean's shoulder as he killed the engine. Bobby watched as Dean became aware and noticed the empty house. Dean's bleak look frightened the gruff old hunter. "Hey, why don't cha go take a load off that knee of yours while I put away the parts. Then I'll scramble together some dinner."

"Sure Bobby," was all Dean said as he made his way into the house as if the weight of the world was on his young shoulders. As soon as Dean was in the door, Bobby pulled out his phone and dialed Sam's number. That kid had better pick up he if he knows what's good for him.

o-o-o-o-o

Despite the sleep in the car, Dean was weary. Faced with the effort of hauling his gimpy ass upstairs, he took a longing look at the lumpy sofa under the living room window. He'd have settled there, but he just couldn't take any more of Bobby's efforts to cheer him up. His crutch making him clumsy, he made his way up the staircase and stopped in the bathroom. As he washed his hands, he looked at his reflection in the small mirror. Since his experience with that African Dream Root, Dean generally avoided looking in mirrors. He was always a little freaked that if he looked to closely at himself, his reflection would have the black eyes of a demon. This feeling was even more intense since his stint in Hell. Despite what Castiel said, in his mind, Dean had sunk so low that there didn't seem to be much difference between him and the other torturing sons of bitches.

Still, Dean looked into his reflection. Today he was thirty years old. Well seventy if you count Hell time. He sure felt every day of seventy. Dean could still see the faint shadows of the bruises Alistair had pounded into his face. Although his broken nose had healed pretty straight, there were still dark circles under his eyes. Circles that were compounded by a lack of sleep as he spent night after night trying to find some way to save his brother and the rest of the damn world. For most hunters, the strain of the things they saw and did pretty quickly began to show on their faces. For a hunter, Dean's face had very few scars and even fewer fine lines. That didn't seem right. He expected to see his guilt and shame like a map of what not to do running across his face. Instead he seemed pretty much the same. Splashing some water over his cheeks and chin, the then wiped it away away with the back of his hand. With one last look at the weary eyes staring back at him, Dean turned away and hobbled to his bed.

The young hunter laid down, ignoring his boots and jacket. The headache that seemed to constantly lurk at the edges of his awareness was pressing hard on his brain right now. He closed his eyes, promising himself that he'd only rest for a minute and promptly fell asleep.

When Dean woke up, it was fully dark outside. He was stiff and his ribs hurt from lying on the stuff in his jacket pocket. With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position, swinging his feet to the floor with a strong twinge of pain from his bum knee. He dropped his head into his hands. The headache seemed to have gone, but he felt lightheaded and groggy. Dean considered just going back to sleep rather than face the evening with Bobby, waiting for Sam who wasn't going to show. They'd have to go through the motions, making excuses as the hour grew later with no sign of the kid. Bobby would try and reassure him, but Dean would know the truth. Sam had split and wasn't coming back. He ground a fist into his eyes. Just then, his stomach gave a loud grumble. Dean had been in no mood for the lunch that Bobby had tried to push on him. He still wasn't sure that anything he put into his mouth would taste like anything except cardboard, but he figured he needed to try and eat. At least to appease Bobby.

Grabbing his crutch, Dean made his way downstairs again. Without any particular need to be quiet, he stumped and bumped on each step in poor humour. He turned the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead, swaying lightly on his good leg. 

The small table was cleared of it's usual pile of books and papers and was actually set with napkins and Bobby's good steak knives. There was a big bowl of mashed potatoes and a measuring cup full of steaming gravy. Two other bowls held salad and a pile of green beans smothered in what smelled like garlic and bacon. Right in the middle of the table was not one, but two gloriously golden pies. But the best part was when he noticed that there were three place settings.

"Hey Dean, I was just going to wake you up. Bobby's about to pull the steak off the grill." Dean turned slowly, amazed at hearing his brother's voice. Sam was lazily leaning in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen with a grin on his face. Dean resisted the urge to hug the kid. Sam had come back! Gesturing at the pies on the table, Sam continued. "I got you apple and pecan because they both looked good and I couldn't decide." Just then Bobby pushed open the door from the back porch, a plate of juicy perfectly cooked steaks in hand.

"Well look who's up. Thought you were gonna sleep through your birthday dinner Princess," Bobby teased as he put the plate on the table. Grabbing three bottles from the fridge he motioned the two younger men towards the meal. "Sit down ya idjits, that food isn't going to eat itself."

Dean made his way to his chair in a daze. Was this really happening? He'd been so sure that his brother was long gone, that he'd never see Sammy again. But when Sam took the chair beside him, shoulder casually brushing against his own, Dean could have cried. Instead he stared at his plate and savored the feeling of his brother beside him, solid and warm. Sam gently pried the crutch from his fingers and leaned it up against the wall. Bobby began opening the beers and dishing out the steak. As the three men began to eat and talk in the bright kitchen, Dean knew that he had a stupid look on his face, but he was too happy to care. He hadn't felt happy in so long that he almost didn't recognize the feeling.

"Thanks for all this," Dean said, gratitude making his voice rough. Bobby just grunted, but Dean could see the slight flush of embarrassment on his neck. His brother picked up his beer and held it towards Dean. The older Winchester picked up his own bottle and clinked it first against Bobby's and then Sam's.

"Happy birthday Dean"," Sam said and gave him the pure, honest dimply, Sammy smile that Dean hadn't seen in a long while. There was still work to do. This feeling of hope that had blossomed in Dean didn't erase what he'd done in Hell, and it didn't get them any further towards preventing the Apocalypse, but for now, it was enough to be alive and together, having dinner with his family.


	7. 35 mm

January 24, 2014

Sam liked working out. It was a way of being in control. He could force his muscles to do as he asked, demonstrating over and over to himself that HE was the one calling the shots over his own body. Besides, the focus needed for deliberate exercise was a great stress reliever. Sometime the physicality of the movement and the sweat and the repetition helped to quiet the constant workings of his brain. Usually when he was doing pushups or planks or running he could forget the things that bothered him for a while. But not today. No, today working out seemed to make his mind wander even more.

Today he seemed to hear his own words play on repeat in his head. "Please tell me, what is the upside of me being alive?" As Sam pulled his body weight up to the bar above his head again and again, he thought about those words. He had been ready to die. Sure he didn't actually want to be dead, but ending his life for the Trials would have given his pathetic existence some meaning. It seemed like his whole life had been controlled in one way or another by someone else. The angels arranged for him to be born, his mother had committed his life to Azazel, his father had moulded him into a Hunter, and Lucifer...well the fallen archangel had taken and used everything left. His life was never his own - but his death, that could be his. It could be his decision. Dying could mean something, at least he had thought so, until Dean stole even that from him.

Sam's arms and shoulders were aching as he dropped to the mat in the modest Men of Letters gymnasium. He focused the anger he felt and began sets of sit-ups, leg lifts and crunches. Dean had not only stolen his death, but had sold his body to a damn angel. And that angel had used him like a puppet, ultimately once more stealing his autonomy and worse, using his hands to kill his friend. How could Dean have betrayed him like that? His brother was the only person that Sam had thought he could trust, and Dean had tricked him and lied to him for weeks. And for what - just so that he wouldn't be alone. Sam would never do that to Dean, he would never take away his brother's chance at redemption, would never trick Dean into being possessed. God knows how terrible his life would be if Dean were gone, but he would rather find a way to live without his brother again, then steal from Dean a peaceful death and afterlife.

His workout over, Sam made his way to the shower, his muscles quivering and his thoughts still churning. As he methodically stripped out of his clothes, he remembered with a twinge of regret the look on Dean's face when Sam had told him that he wouldn't save Dean in the same circumstance. Sam had hurt his brother, and if he were truly honest with himself, he had known that his words would wound. He had wanted Dean to suffer a bit too. But Kevin - or at least his ghost, had asked them to "get over it." Sam was conflicted, maybe he should try and fix things between him and Dean. Running his hand through his sweaty hair Sam sighed. Then he turned to look at his reflection in the mirror. The glaring absence of his anti-possession tattoo stirred the flames of his anger again. One more thing his brother had taken from him. "Screw Dean," he thought as he stepped into the warm spray of water, "he deserves to feel bad for a bit."

o-o-o-o-o

Dean sat in the kitchen with his laptop in front of him on the table. In theory, he had been up all night trying to find a lead on Abbadon or more information on the First Blade. But all he had found was the bottom of a bottle of Jack. He stared into the glass in his hand and swirled the last of the amber liquid. The harsh words his kid brother had said echoed through Dean's brain. "No Dean, I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't." The green eyed hunter had mulled this over and over for the past few days. It hurt to hear the most important person in his life say that he had no problem letting him die. But he knew that Sammy was angry and was lashing out. Sam had chosen his words to hurt Dean because of how much he was hurting. Still, Dean wasn't stupid, he knew that there was more to what Sam was trying to say then just the heat of anger. He understood that Sam was feeling betrayed. No matter how much Sam's words had been painful, he had faith that his kid brother still cared. He'd been hoping that he and Sammy could hash things out after ghost-Kevin had asked them to "get over it." But Sam wasn't ready to make nice and Dean wasn't going to push.

From the hallway, he heard Sam return from the gym and head to the bathroom to shower. He figured he had about 10 minutes before his brother came to the kitchen in search of coffee. Dean closed his laptop and pushed to his feet. Putting the empty bottle in the trash, he filled and turned on the coffee maker. The same appliance that Kevin's ghost had used to communicate with them a few days ago. Dean sighed deeply, he had failed the young prophet and he had failed Sam. The weight of his failures was compressed and twisted into a sense of frustration. Sam needed time, and Dean was eager to stay out of Sam's way and avoid a fight or more hurtful words. Grabbing his computer and the glass of whiskey, Dean went back to his room.

Closing the door softly behind him, Dean wearily sank onto the bed. He was exhausted, but he couldn't seem to sleep lately. His emotions were all over the place. Normally he could push his feelings down and pull them out only when he was able to deal, but right now, no matter how hard he tried to bury his feelings, he felt overwhelmed. He was trapped on a damned merry go round of guilt and worry and anger that he couldn't seem to stop or control. He only hoped he could keep some of this crap hidden from his brother. Sam had enough to deal with.

Dean felt horribly guilty over what he had put Sam through with Gadreel. He knew that Sam wouldn't have wanted to be possessed, even if dying meant the end of everything. For both of them. But this situation hadn't been like when Sam had jumped into the Pit with Lucifer, there was no purpose in Sam dying. Although maybe from Sam's perspective it wasn't so different. "I don't know" groaned Dean to himself, too tired to think it all through.  
Dean swigged down the last contents of the glass he still carried. Pulling open the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a fresh bottle and refilled his glass. Easing back against the headboard, he sipped the burning drink. His intense guilt was not so easily swallowed. He also felt terribly guilty over what he had done to Cas. The angel had needed them after Heaven had closed and the angels fell, and Dean had treated him like garbage. Sure there was a lot of water under the bridge that made up the relationship between Cas and the Winchesters, but Cas was family, and Dean had let him down.

He tipped back another swallow of whiskey. Dean couldn't forget what he had let happen to Kevin. The prophet was just a kid, a teenager who had his whole future ahead of him. Kevin hadn't asked to be a prophet, and he had suffered terrible losses yet still did his best to help with whatever Dean and Sam had needed. The kid was supposed to be under Dean's protection and he had let Kevin die on his watch. Knowing that the youngster was stuck in the Veil until they could solve the Heaven problem, made Dean feel even worse. Finding Ms. Tran didn't really change how bad he felt, she was just one more person whom Dean had failed. The constant gnaw of guilt was something that Dean had thought he'd learned to live with a long time ago. Life as a hunter meant you had to toughen up quick. Those who couldn't, quickly found themselves dead. But he didn't know how to live with what he was feeling now.

Thinking of death switched Dean's brain over to the whirl of worry that stormed like a tornado through his mind. Dean worried about Sam. The kid seemed way too eager to die. Like dying was something he wanted. Despite what Sam had said to hurt him, what really frightened Dean was when Sam had asked "what is the upside of me being alive?" Did his brother really believe that the world would be better if he were dead? How could Sammy not know his value? Sam was a great hunter and a valuable resource to the hunting world. More importantly, his kid brother was a good man, strong and kind and amazingly smart. Dean had never tried to be Sam's hero, it's just that it had been, was, and always would be Dean's job to protect Sam, but Dean couldn't protect Sam if the kid wanted to be dead.

Finishing yet another glass of liquor, Dean stared into the crystal bottom of the glass. The older hunter also worried about the situation with Heaven and Metatron. All those souls stuck in the veil, all the fallen angels roaming the earth doing God knows what. Then there was Gadreel. If he did nothing else, he was going to track down that son of a bitch halo and make him pay for what he had done to Sam and Kevin. The Mark on his arm pulsed enthusiastically at his anger and he dropped the empty glass to grip it with his left hand. Like an itch that he couldn't scratch the red mark on his arm seemed to burn under the surface of the skin. Slowly the burn eased off.

He was worried about the looming battle between Crowley and Abaddon for control of Hell. Neither ruler was good news, but Abaddon was determined to bring Hell to earth. As much as Dean hated having to play nice with Crowley, the hunter had to take out Abaddon before she destroyed the world in her quest for power. Crowley, the limey bastard, had lied to Dean, orchestrating the whole fiasco at Cain's home. As he looked at the Mark and thought about how it had got there, Dean had to admit that he had acted before thinking. It had seemed necessary at the time, but afterwards it had been clear that Crowley had manipulated him right from the jump.

Suddenly, Dean's anger flared to life again, like gas thrown onto a fire. The ugly thing burned and itched and he knew that he hadn't looked beyond ganking Abaddon when he had taken the mark from Cain. There were repercussions to this thing that he didn't understand. Already he could feel it. The mark was making him agitated and restless. He felt overly sensitized, his skin crawling like an addict who had gone too long between hits. What the mark was craving didn't feel like anything good. Dean was no biblical scholar, but he knew the story of Cain and Abel.

Still gripping his right forearm tightly, Dean surged to his feet and began pacing his small room. He was pissed at Sam for being bitchy and hurtful when Dean had saved his fucking life. He was livid at Gadreel and his betrayal. He was furious at Crowley for getting him into this mess and for being a slimy little asshole. Mostly he was mad at God, or the universe or whatever fucking destiny that once again put the Winchesters squarely in the path of oncoming disaster. Why did everything fall to them? Mostly, if he was honest, he was furious with himself. His own failures and stupid decisions had brought a lot of this crap rolling downhill towards them.

Breathing deeply to calm his surging emotions, Dean flopped back onto the bed and pulled his headphones over his ears. Listening to music loudly, helped quiet his brain. It was the only thing that seemed to bring him even a modicum of peace. Lately when everything was too much, he'd retreat into some Zeppelin, Metallica or AC/DC. The music drove everything else out of his head for a little while. Dean reached over, hit play on his Ipod and leaned back against his headboard, arms crossed against his chest.

o-o-o-o-o

The smell of hot coffee greeted Sam as he walked into the kitchen, but Dean was not in the room. His brother had obviously made it fresh for Sam as there wasn't even a cup taken from the pot. He poured a mug and wandered to the cupboard. A box of Lucky Charms was sitting front and centre on the middle shelf. Feeling a little nostalgic, Sam grabbed the box, snagged a bowl and spoon, and went to the fridge for some milk. As he sat and ate his cereal, Sam felt his mood shift back again. Dean was always doing little stuff like that - making fresh coffee, stocking Sam's favourite foods. It reminded Sam that his brother had taken care of him his whole life. Although Sam knew that he deserved to be treated like an adult and have his choices respected, maybe it was also true that it was unrealistic to expect Dean to simply let go of a lifetime of being Sam's big brother. Sam pondered that while he chewed, but he truly couldn't find an answer. He loved Dean and felt loved back in the way that the older man cared for Sam. No matter how pissed he was as his brother, he knew that to his very bones. But he also sometimes hated Dean, how stifling his care-taking could be, how arrogant he was in assuming he knew what was best for Sam, how Dean's dominant personality made Sam feel weak and somehow lesser.

Putting his bowl in the sink, Sam refilled his coffee and made his way on stocking feet to the library. If he couldn't solve his problems with Dean and their current estrangement, he could put his brain to work. They were tackling more than the usual number of crises. Sam's list of things to research was jointly topped by finding Metatron and a way to re-open Heaven, and tracking Abaddon and figuring out how to gank the evil bitch. But instead, Sam went to the shelves and searched for books on biblical lore. He needed to understand more about the Mark of Cain that currently disfigured his brother's arm. Sam pulled a couple of large leather bound books from the shelves and settled in at one of the wooden tables.

After a few hours had passed with little to show for his work, Sam leaned back and stretched his aching back and rubbed his tired eyes, Leaning over to read the small type certainly didn't do any favours to his spine. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after lunch time. He realized that he hadn't actually seen Dean yet today. Usually Dean would wander into the library around noon with a sandwich or soup for Sam. Not that the tall man expected it today, after all since Kevin had left with his mother, the brothers had barely spent 45 minutes in the same room. To say that things were strained between them was an understatement. Sam sighed, he was still really angry, but he did miss the day to day interaction with Dean.

Wanting to focus on something else, Sam pushed the books aside and pulled his laptop over. Booting up he checked his email accounts, perused his Google alerts, and then opened up his usual new feeds. His eye was drawn to the date at the top of the web page he was scanning. It took a few seconds, but he gasped when he realized that today was Dean's birthday. His brother was 35 today and he'd been so pissed off that he hadn't even remembered until he saw the date. Not that the Winchester family ever really did much for birthdays. Of course, when he was a kid, Dean had always tried to do something for Sam's birthday whether it was a small gift, or a cupcake with a candle. As they got older and both were more involved in hunting, birthdays were usually ignored, or if it fit in around the current case, celebrated with a beer and a pizza. Since Stanford, Dean's birthday had been bittersweet for Sam because January 24th was also Jessica's birthday. In college, he always considered it a strange coincidence that the two people he loved more than anything were born on the same day, albeit five years apart. He knew better now, it wasn't a coincidence. He'd learned over the years how his entire life had been engineered and manipulated since before his birth.

Once again Sam felt a peculiar combination of sad and angry, but he knew he had to do something for Dean. Hell, his older brother hadn't even expected to live this long. Sam had lived in a world without Dean before, and despite his anger he never wanted to do that again. So they had to celebrate his birthday in some way. Sam was determined that he would not be the one to extend the olive branch for their relationship, but maybe there was still some way to let Dean know he cared. One handed he typed in a few ideas into the browser. Maybe he could research this like he did everything else. Just then Dean stepped up from the map room.

o-o-o-o-o

Dean jerked awake, his headphones fallen beside him on the pillow. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, and he didn't feel particularly rested. In fact he felt edgy and anxious. Checking his watch he saw that it was almost noon. He ground his knuckles into his tired eyes and turned off his Ipod. His last half-full glass of whiskey sat on the side table, and Dean tossed it back hoping the burn of it would help him get more alert. He needed to work. This sitting around stewing in his thoughts was driving him crazy. Hunting would at least give him something to stab, shoot or otherwise kill, which hopefully would settle his agitation.

Flipping open his laptop and sitting it across his legs, he began scanning his usual news sources for leads. He needed something, anything to get out of the bunker and clear his head. Finding a promising story about a supposedly impossible murder in a locked room, he clicked on the accompanying picture. Apparently the image was a leaked photo taken just before the murder. In the background of the teen-aged girl's selfie was a dark, sinister figure. Dean hit print on the story and the photo. It looked like a simple case of killer ghost caught on film. Pulling his duffle from beneath his bed, he began to pack while the small wireless printer on his desk whined.

It was a 21 hour drive to the town in Washington and Dean considered just leaving a note for Sam. As much as he would like the back up on the hunt, he wasn't sure he could handle a trip of that length if it meant a sullen and bickering little brother riding shotgun. Dean wasn't sure if he hoped that Sam would stay behind or join him. Everything was so confusing right now. He didn't know how to talk to Sam, and seemed to have no idea what would set off his brother. But with a sigh, he realized that it wouldn't be fair to Sam to just slip away, so once he was done packing he made his way to the library where he figured his brother would be.

o-o-o-o-o

It was actually kind of nice to be behind the wheel of Baby. Sam in his usually place at shotgun reviewing information on his laptop, classic rock was playing on the radio, and Dean could lie to himself and pretend that everything was normal. Well at least their kind of normal. Wrapping his hands around the steering wheel Dean knew that a handful of peaceful hours on the road wasn't going to fix things between Sam and him, but it was surprisingly comforting. The only thing that threatened to spoil the trip was the growing burning on his right arm and the building nausea that had begun churning in his gut.

"Hey get this," said Sam, obviously excited by his research. "P.T. Barnum was one of the early debunkers of spirit photography. I guess he didn't like anyone else fleecing the naive but him."

"Wasn't he the guy who said there's a sucker born every minute?" Dean asked.

"Actually, there's no evidence that Barnum ever said that. It was common phase at the time used by gamblers and confidence men," the younger man said from the passenger seat.

Dean had to smile. Sam always was in a good mood when he could expound upon some useless factoid. "So do you think this case is a hoax?" Dean wondered, hoping they weren't driving clear across country for nothing.

"Don't know - maybe. But it's worth checking out don't cha think?" Sam asked.

Just then the Mark flared from itchy and irritating to burning hot. Dean hissed in pain and clutched his arm with his other hand. Before the pain could subside, the churning in his stomach surged and Dean realized he was going to hurl. He'd rather not barf in front of Sam much less all over the upholstery, but with his mouth filling with saliva, Dean efficiently pulled the car to the side of the road. Shoving his door open, he took three steps before dropping to his knees. Behind him, he could hear Sam shouting his name and the sound of the passenger door opening, but then his gut heaved and he was spewing the whiskey soaked remains of his lunch all over the dirt in front of him. He felt like he was being turned inside out as he gagged, coughed and spit, panting to try and catch his breath.

o-o-o-o-o

Sam was looking at Dean for a response to his question when he heard Dean's hiss of pain. He watched as Dean clenched his left fist over his forearm and the colour suddenly drained out of his face. Sam closed his laptop and tossed it in the back seat so that he could help his brother, when he realized that the car had rolled to a stop. Dean swallowed convulsively and urgently pushed his way out of the door.

"Dean!," Sam called, his heart leapt in fear. Something was wrong with his brother. Dean never threw up, his iron stomach being able to handle almost anything by this point. The Mark of Cain had obviously done something to Dean. Sam got out of the car just in time to see Dean drop to his hands and knees in the dirt and spew his guts. He walked around the hood of the car and crouched beside Dean. He wondered if Dean might shrug it off in annoyance, but he placed a hand on his brother's back to try and offer some comfort as the older hunter gagged and panted, trying to get his breathing under control.

Seeing Dean being sick tugged at some instinct in Sam to protect and care for his brother. Sam was viscerally reminded that Dean was human - vulnerable and imperfect. He'd been looking up to his big brother for so long that sometimes he forgot. He was so used to Dean the protector, that it was almost painful to be reminded that the man he looked up to, could be flawed. Sam abruptly wanted to forgive his brother, to apologize for hurting him, to find a way to mend the damage between them. Sure he was still angry, but he'd rather be angry with Dean than happy with anyone else. But he just couldn't get the words out and instead stayed where he was, hand on Dean's back, offering his silent support.

o-o-o-o-o

Dean felt Sam's large, warm hand between his shoulder blades as he fought to get his stomach under control. He was surprised by the touch and shocked when tears sprang to his eyes. He'd assumed that Sam was still too mad to give a damn about Dean's discomfort but it felt good to be this close to Sam again. He was grateful for the support. Hoping Sam would blame his damp eyes on his bout of vomiting, he dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his flannel.

"You done?," Sam asked gently from beside him. Not trusting his voice, Dean simply nodded and began climbing to his feet. It was a good thing Sam was so close because a rush of dizziness hit Dean once he got vertical. He swayed and would have fallen if Sam hadn't put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Dean felt like a wrung out dishrag, oddly light and woozy, like a strong wind would blow him over. He reached out and gripped Sam's arm.

"All right, let's get you back to the car," Sam murmured, supporting and balancing Dean as he walked the older man around the car to the passenger side. Dean shook his head to clear it as Sam carefully manhandled him into sitting on the edge of the seat.

Slumping against the seat back, Dean was too exhausted to sit up. "What the hell," thought Dean as he tried to regroup. There was no reason for him to feel so weak and strung out. He'd been completely fine until suddenly he wasn't. It was a little frightening to think how quickly he'd gone from zero to tossing his cookies. An open bottle of water appeared before his face. Looking up he met Sam's gaze. His brother's hazel eyes were filled with unexpected compassion. Dean was used to those eyes being indifferent or angry when pointed in his directly lately. Taking a couple of swigs of water, Dean was pleased to see that the hand holding the bottle wasn't visibly shaking.

"You OK?," Sam asked, still crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee.

"Yeah," Dean croaked, "sorry about that." Sam simply nodded and lifted Dean's feet into the footwell and closed the car door. Dean watched through the windshield as Sam walked around to the still open driver's door and settled into the seat. He wanted to protest and insist on driving, but he wasn't entirely sure that he actually could turn the wheel right now. He could barely turn his head. Sam glanced over at him with a tentative smile. It had been a while since his kid brother had looked so open and comfortable around him. Dean suddenly wanted to apologize again for letting Gadreel possess Sam. He was overcome with the urge to beg for forgiveness and promise anything if they could just go back to being brothers again. But Dean was too droopy to do more than smile back faintly.

o-o-o-o-o

Sam took the car out of park and eased back onto the road. "Seriously man, try and get some rest. You need it," Sam said eyes alternating between the road and Dean. He turned down the radio and the a/c, letting the car warm up in the late afternoon sun. After half an hour or so, he glanced over to see Dean breathing deeply, having finally succumbed to sleep. It was a relief to see Dean's face regain some colour and smooth out. Still, Sam frowned as he freely examined his brother. The lines on Dean's face seemed more deeply etched and the dark circles under his green eyes were like permanent shadows. Dean was 35 today, and even sleeping he looked his age. Bone tired, like he was carrying burdens so heavy that they showed on his body. And Sam was sure that with the trifecta of Heaven, Hell and the Mark of Cain, that those burdens were only going to get heavier. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair to rub the back of his neck.

Kevin was right. The prophet was dead, but they were both alive, and together. Sam didn't know how, but he was going to fix things between them. With one eye on the road, he reached over, and gently pulled Dean's shoulder so that his head was resting at an angle that seemed more comfortable. Dean was so exhausted that he didn't even stir. Giving his sleeping brother's leg a pat, he turned his attention back to the road. As the wheels of the big car hummed along the black top, Sam whispered "Happy birthday big brother, I got this"


End file.
